What Happens When Mortals Try to Drink Winston Churchill’s Daily Intake of Alcohol

I have tak­en more out of alco­hol than alco­hol has tak­en out of me. — Win­ston Churchill

Win­ston Churchill had a rep­u­ta­tion as a bril­liant states­man and a prodi­gious drinker.

The for­mer prime min­is­ter imbibed through­out the day, every day.  He also burned through 10 dai­ly cig­ars, and lived to the ripe old age of 90.

His come­back to Field Mar­shal Bernard Mont­gomery’s boast that he nei­ther smoked nor drank, and was 100 per­cent fit was “I drink and smoke, and I am 200 per­cent fit.”

First Lady Eleanor Roo­sevelt mar­veled “that any­one could smoke so much and drink so much and keep per­fect­ly well.”

In No More Cham­pagne: Churchill and His Mon­ey, author David Lough doc­u­ments Churchill’s dis­as­trous alco­hol expens­es, as well as the bot­tle count at Chartwell, his Ken­tish res­i­dence. Here’s the tal­ly for March 24,1937:

180 bot­tles and 30 half bot­tles of Pol Roger cham­pagne

20 bot­tles and 9 half bot­tles of oth­er cham­pagne

100+ bot­tles of claret

117 bot­tles and 389 half bot­tles of Barsac

13 bot­tles of brandy

5 bot­tles of cham­pagne brandy

7 bot­tles of liqueur whisky


All that liquor was not going to drink itself.

Did Churchill have a hol­low leg?  An extra­or­di­nar­i­ly high tol­er­ance? An uncan­ny abil­i­ty to mask his intox­i­ca­tion?

Whiskey som­me­li­er Rex Williams, a founder of the Whiskey Tribe YouTube chan­nel, and pod­cast host Andrew Heaton endeav­or to find out, above, by ded­i­cat­ing a day to the British Bulldog’s drink­ing reg­i­men.

They’re not the first to under­take such a fol­ly.

The Dai­ly Telegraph’s Har­ry Wal­lop doc­u­ment­ed a sim­i­lar adven­ture in 2015, wind­ing up queasy, and to judge by his 200 spelling mis­takes, cog­ni­tive­ly impaired.

Williams and Heaton’s on-cam­era exper­i­ment achieves a Drunk His­to­ry vibe and tell­tale flushed cheeks.

Here’s the drill, not that we advise try­ing it at home:

BREAKFAST

An eye open­er of John­nie Walk­er Red — just a splash — mixed with soda water to the rim.

Fol­low with more of the same through­out the morn­ing.

This is how Churchill, who often con­duct­ed his morn­ing busi­ness abed in a dress­ing gown, man­aged to aver­age between 1 — 3 ounces of alco­hol before lunch.

Appar­ent­ly he devel­oped a taste for it as a young sol­dier post­ed in what is now Pak­istan, when Scotch not only improved the fla­vor of plain water, ‘once one got the knack of it, the very repul­sion from the fla­vor devel­oped an attrac­tion of its own.”

After a morn­ing spent sip­ping the stuff, Heaton reports feel­ing “play­ful and jokey, but not yet vio­lent.”

LUNCH

Time for “an ambi­tious quo­ta of cham­pagne!”

Churchill’s pre­ferred brand was Pol Roger, though he wasn’t averse to Giesler, Moet et Chan­don, or Pom­mery,  pur­chased from the upscale wine and spir­its mer­chant Ran­dolph Payne & Sons,  whose let­ter­head iden­ti­fied them as sup­pli­ers to “Her Majesty The Late Queen Vic­to­ria and to The Late King William The Fourth.”

Churchill enjoyed his impe­r­i­al pint of cham­pagne from a sil­ver tankard, like a “prop­er Edwar­dian gent” accord­ing to his life­long friend, Odette Pol-Roger.

Williams and Heaton take theirs in flutes accom­pa­nied by fish sticks from the freez­er case. This is the point beyond which a hang­over is all but assured.

Lunch con­cludes with a post-pran­di­al cognac, to set­tle the stom­ach and begin the diges­tion process.

Churchill, who declared him­self a man of sim­ple tastes — I am eas­i­ly sat­is­fied with the best — would have insist­ed on some­thing from the house of Hine.

RESTORATIVE  AFTERNOON NAP

This seems to be a crit­i­cal ele­ment of Churchill’s alco­hol man­age­ment suc­cess. He fre­quent­ly allowed him­self as much as 90 min­utes to clear the cob­webs.

A nap def­i­nite­ly pulls our re-enac­tors out of their tail spins. Heaton emerges ready to “bluff (his) way through a meet­ing.”

TEATIME

I guess we can call it that, giv­en the tim­ing.

No tea though.

Just a steady stream of extreme­ly weak scotch and sodas to take the edge off of admin­is­tra­tive tasks.

DINNER

More cham­pagne!!! More cognac!!!

“This should be the apex of our wit,” a bleary Heaton tells his belch­ing com­pan­ion, who fess­es up to vom­it­ing upon wak­ing the next day.

Their con­clu­sion? Churchill’s reg­i­men is unmanageable…at least for them.

And pos­si­bly also for Churchill.

As fel­low Scotch enthu­si­ast Christo­pher Hitchens revealed in a 2002 arti­cle in The Atlantic, some of Churchill’s most famous radio broad­casts, includ­ing his famous pledge to “fight on the beach­es” after the Mir­a­cle of Dunkirk, were voiced by a pinch hit­ter:

Nor­man Shel­ley, who played Win­nie-the-Pooh for the BBC’s Children’s Hour, ven­tril­o­quized Churchill for his­to­ry and fooled mil­lions of lis­ten­ers. Per­haps Churchill was too much inca­pac­i­tat­ed by drink to deliv­er the speech­es him­self.

Or per­haps the great man mere­ly felt he’d earned the right to unwind with a glass of Graham’s Vin­tage Char­ac­ter Port, a Fine Old Amon­til­la­do Sher­ry or a Fine Old Liquor brandy, as was his wont.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2022.

Relat­ed Con­tent 

Win­ston Churchill Gets a Doctor’s Note to Drink Unlim­it­ed Alco­hol While Vis­it­ing the U.S. Dur­ing Pro­hi­bi­tion (1932)

Win­ston Churchill’s Paint­ings: Great States­man, Sur­pris­ing­ly Good Artist

Oh My God! Win­ston Churchill Received the First Ever Let­ter Con­tain­ing “O.M.G.” (1917)

Win­ston Churchill Goes Back­ward Down a Water Slide & Los­es His Trunks (1934)

- Ayun Hal­l­i­day is the Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist in NYC.

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 2 ) |

Discover Michelangelo’s First Painting, Created When He Was Only 12 or 13 Years Old

Think back, if you will, to the works of art you cre­at­ed at age twelve or thir­teen. For many, per­haps most of us, our out­put at that stage of ado­les­cence amount­ed to direc­tion­less doo­dles, chaot­ic comics, and a few unsteady-at-best school projects. But then, most of us did­n’t grow up to be Michelan­ge­lo. In the late four­teen-eight­ies, when that tow­er­ing Renais­sance artist was still what we would now call a “tween,” he paint­ed The Tor­ment of Saint Antho­ny, a depic­tion of the tit­u­lar reli­gious fig­ure beset by demons in the desert. Though based on a wide­ly known engrav­ing, it nev­er­the­less shows evi­dence of rapid­ly advanc­ing tech­nique, inspi­ra­tion, and even cre­ativ­i­ty — espe­cial­ly when placed under the infrared scan­ner.

For about half a mil­len­ni­um, The Tor­ment of Saint Antho­ny was­n’t thought to have been paint­ed by Michelan­ge­lo. As explained in the video from Inspi­rag­gio just below, when the paint­ing sold at Sothe­by’s in 2008, the buy­er took it to the Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art for exam­i­na­tion and clean­ing.

“Beneath the lay­ers of dirt accu­mu­lat­ed over the cen­turies,” says the nar­ra­tor, “a very par­tic­u­lar col­or palette appeared. “The tones, the blends, the way the human fig­ure was treat­ed: all of it began to resem­ble the style Michelan­ge­lo would use years lat­er in none oth­er than the Sis­tine Chapel.” Infrared reflec­tog­ra­phy sub­se­quent­ly turned up pen­ti­men­ti, or cor­rec­tion marks, a com­mon indi­ca­tion that “a paint­ing is not a copy, but an orig­i­nal work cre­at­ed with artis­tic free­dom.”

It was the Kim­bell Art Muse­um in Fort Worth, Texas that first bet big on the prove­nance of The Tor­ment of Saint Antho­ny. Its new­ly hired direc­tor pur­chased the paint­ing after turn­ing up “not a sin­gle con­vinc­ing argu­ment against the attri­bu­tion.” Thus acquired, it became “the only paint­ing by Michelan­ge­lo locat­ed any­where in the Amer­i­c­as, and also just one of four easel paint­ings attrib­uted to him through­out his entire career,” dur­ing most of which he dis­par­aged oil paint­ing itself. About a decade lat­er, and after fur­ther analy­sis, the art his­to­ri­an Gior­gio Bon­san­ti put his con­sid­er­able author­i­ty behind a defin­i­tive con­fir­ma­tion that it is indeed the work of the young Michelan­ge­lo. There remain doubters, of course, and even the noto­ri­ous­ly uncom­pro­mis­ing artist him­self may have con­sid­ered it an imma­ture work unwor­thy of his name. But who else could have cre­at­ed an imma­ture work like it?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Orig­i­nal Por­trait of the Mona Lisa Found Beneath the Paint Lay­ers of Leonar­do da Vinci’s Mas­ter­piece

When Michelan­ge­lo Cre­at­ed Artis­tic Designs for Mil­i­tary For­ti­fi­ca­tions to Pro­tect Flo­rence (1529–1530)

How Four Mas­ters — Michelan­ge­lo, Donatel­lo, Ver­roc­chio & Berni­ni — Sculpt­ed David

A Secret Room with Draw­ings Attrib­uted to Michelan­ge­lo Opens to Vis­i­tors in Flo­rence

Michelan­ge­lo Entered a Com­pe­ti­tion to Put a Miss­ing Arm Back on Lao­coön and His Sons — and Lost

Michelangelo’s Illus­trat­ed Gro­cery List

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

A Brief History of Surrealist Art: From the Bible and Ancient Egypt to Salvador Dalí’s Dream Worlds

The term sur­re­al­ism — or rather, sur­réal­isme — orig­i­nates from the French words for “beyond real­i­ty.” That’s a zone, we may assume, reach­able by only dar­ing, and pos­si­bly unhinged, artis­tic minds. But in fact, even the most down-to-earth among us go beyond real­i­ty on a night­ly basis. We do so in our dreams, where the accept­ed mechan­ics of space and time, life and death, and cause and effect do not apply. Or rather, they’re replaced by anoth­er set of rules entire­ly, which feels per­fect­ly con­sis­tent and con­vinc­ing to us in the moment. Such “dream log­ic” may frus­trate the friends and fam­i­ly we attempt to regale with tales of our night visions, but as the sur­re­al­ists found, it could also be put to the ser­vice of endur­ing art.

In the Hochela­ga video above, that chan­nel’s cre­ator Tom­mie Trelawny pro­vides a long his­to­ry of sur­re­al­ism in a short run­ning time. Trac­ing that move­men­t’s roots, he goes all the way back to the ancient cul­ture of the Aus­tralian Abo­rig­i­nals, for whom the con­cept of the “dream­time” still plays an impor­tant role — and has inspired “pos­si­bly the old­est unbro­ken artis­tic tra­di­tion in the world.”

In oth­er places and oth­er eras of antiq­ui­ty, dreams were also con­sid­ered “a bridge for the spir­it world and the phys­i­cal one.” For the Egyp­tians, “these night­time voy­ages were a chance to see real­i­ty more clear­ly,” as evi­denced by resut, their word for “dream,” which also means “awak­en­ing.” Unsur­pris­ing­ly for reg­u­lar Hochela­ga view­ers, Trelawny also finds dreams in the Bible, “a book full of visions of the divine and glimpses into the cos­mic unknown.”

In every peri­od between antiq­ui­ty and now, art — includ­ing the work of Hierony­mus Bosch, Albrecht Dur­er, and Edvard Munch, as well as Japan­ese wood­block prints — has attempt­ed to cap­ture the sort of expe­ri­ences and imagery encoun­tered only in dreams, and indeed night­mares. But it was only in the wake of Sig­mund Freud’s The Inter­pre­ta­tion of Dreams, first pub­lished in 1899, that sur­re­al­ism could take shape, inspired by the ques­tion, “If the mind can reveal itself through dreams, what if it could reveal itself through art?” Après Freud came the uncon­scious­ness-inspired paint­ings of Gior­gio de Chiri­co, René Magritte, and of course Sal­vador Dalí. Yet none of them could have fore­seen the tru­ly sur­re­al­is­tic déluge that arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence has brought us. If AI reveals to us some­thing of how we think, its hal­lu­ci­na­tions reveal to us even more about how we dream.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

An Intro­duc­tion to Sur­re­al­ism: The Big Aes­thet­ic Ideas Pre­sent­ed in Three Videos

What Makes Sal­vador Dalí’s Icon­ic Sur­re­al­ist Paint­ing The Per­sis­tence of Mem­o­ry a Great Work of Art

Watch Dreams That Mon­ey Can Buy, a Sur­re­al­ist Film by Man Ray, Mar­cel Duchamp, Alexan­der Calder, Fer­nand Léger & Hans Richter

Europe After the Rain: Watch the Vin­tage Doc­u­men­tary on the Two Great Art Move­ments, Dada & Sur­re­al­ism (1978)

David Lynch Presents the His­to­ry of Sur­re­al­ist Film (1987)

The Fan­tas­tic Women Of Sur­re­al­ism: An Intro­duc­tion

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Dictionary of the Oldest Written Language–It Took 90 Years to Complete, and It’s Now Free Online

It took 90 years to com­plete. But, in 2011, schol­ars at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Chica­go final­ly pub­lished a 21-vol­ume dic­tio­nary of Akka­di­an, the lan­guage used in ancient Mesopotamia. Unspo­ken for 2,000 years, Akka­di­an was pre­served on clay tablets and in stone inscrip­tions until schol­ars deci­phered it dur­ing the last two cen­turies.

In the past, we’ve pub­lished audio that lets you hear the recon­struct­ed sounds of Akka­di­an (Hear The Epic of Gil­gamesh Read in the Orig­i­nal Akka­di­an and Enjoy the Sounds of Mesopotamia). Now, should you wish, you can down­load PDFs of U. Chicago’s Akka­di­an dic­tio­nary for free. All 21 vol­umes would cost well over $1,945 if pur­chased in hard copy. But the PDFs, they won’t run you a dime.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Largest His­tor­i­cal Dic­tio­nary of Eng­lish Slang Now Free Online: Cov­ers 500 Years of the “Vul­gar Tongue”

Learn Ancient Greek in 64 Free Lessons: A Free Online Course from Bran­deis & Har­vard

Who Decides What Words Get Into the Dic­tio­nary?

Lis­ten to The Epic of Gil­gamesh Being Read in its Orig­i­nal Ancient Lan­guage, Akka­di­an

The Greek Mythology Family Tree: A Visual Guide Shows How Zeus, Athena, and the Ancient Gods Are Related

It was long ago that poly­the­ism, as the sto­ry comes down to us, gave way to monothe­ism. Human­i­ty used to have many gods, and now almost every reli­gious believ­er acknowl­edges just one — though which god, exact­ly, does vary. Some pop­u­lar the­o­ries of “big his­to­ry” hold that, as the scale of a soci­ety grows larg­er, the num­ber of deities pro­posed by its faiths gets small­er. In that scheme, it makes sense that the grow­ing Roman Empire would even­tu­al­ly adopt Chris­tian­i­ty, and also that the gods it first inher­it­ed from the city-states of ancient Greece would be so numer­ous. Through our mod­ern eyes, the var­i­ous immor­tals invoked so read­i­ly by the Greeks look less like holy fig­ures than a cast of char­ac­ters in a long-run­ning tele­vi­sion dra­ma.

Or maybe it would have to be a soap opera, giv­en that most of them belong to one big, often trou­bled clan. Hence the struc­ture of Use­fulCharts’ Greek Mythol­o­gy Fam­i­ly Tree, explained in the video above. Also avail­able for pur­chase in poster form, it clear­ly dia­grams the rela­tion­ships between every­one in the Greek pan­theon, from the high­est “pri­mor­dial gods” like Eros Elder and Gaia down to the chil­dren of Zeus and Posei­don.

How­ev­er pow­er­ful they could be — and some were pow­er­ful indeed — none of these gods act­ed like the infal­li­ble, omni­scient enti­ties of the major reli­gions we know today. They could act capri­cious­ly, venge­ful­ly and even non­sen­si­cal­ly, a reflec­tion of the often capricious‑, vengeful‑, and non­sen­si­cal-seem­ing nature of life in the ancient world.

For the Greeks them­selves, these myth­i­cal gods and mon­sters offered not just an explana­to­ry mech­a­nism, but also a form of enter­tain­ment, giv­en that noth­ing could go on in their ele­vat­ed world with­out high dra­ma. For us, they remain present in leg­ends from which we still draw inspi­ra­tion for our own larg­er-than-life sto­ries of hero­ism and vil­lainy, but also in our very lan­guage. Con­sid­er the ways in which we con­tin­ue to evoke the likes of the time-rul­ing Chronos, the love-bring­ing Cupid, the androg­y­nous Her­maph­ro­di­tus, or the mul­ti-head­ed Hydra in every­day speech. Though we may no longer need them to orga­nize our soci­eties, some of them have kept play­ing roles in the age of monothe­ism — which, what­ev­er its oth­er advan­tages, does­n’t require us to con­sult dia­grams to know who’s who.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mythos: An Ani­ma­tion Retells Time­less Greek Myths with Abstract Mod­ern Designs

Mythol­o­gy Expert Reviews Depic­tions of Greek & Roman Myths in Pop­u­lar Movies and TV Shows

How the Ancient Greeks Built Their Mag­nif­i­cent Tem­ples: The Art of Ancient Engi­neer­ing

18 Clas­sic Myths Explained with Ani­ma­tion: Pandora’s Box, Sisy­phus & More

Con­cepts of the Hero in Greek Civ­i­liza­tion (A Free Har­vard Course)

A Visu­al Time­line of World His­to­ry: Watch the Rise & Fall of Civ­i­liza­tions Over 5,000 Years

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Birth of Espresso: The Story Behind the Coffee Shots That Fuel Modern Life

Espres­so is nei­ther bean nor roast.

It is a method of pres­sur­ized cof­fee brew­ing that ensures speedy deliv­ery, and it has birthed a whole cul­ture.

Amer­i­cans may be accus­tomed to camp­ing out in cafes with their lap­tops for hours, but Ital­ian cof­fee bars are fast-paced envi­ron­ments where cus­tomers buzz in for a quick pick-me-up, then head right back out, no seat required.

It’s the sort of effi­cien­cy the Father of the Mod­ern Adver­tis­ing Poster, Leonet­to Cap­piel­lo, allud­ed to in his famous 1922 image for the Vic­to­ria Arduino machine (below).

Let 21st-cen­tu­ry cof­fee afi­ciona­dos cul­ti­vate their Zen-like patience with slow pourovers. A hun­dred years ago, the goal was a qual­i­ty prod­uct that the suc­cess­ful busi­nessper­son could enjoy with­out break­ing stride.

As cof­fee expert James Hoff­mann, author of The World Atlas of Cof­fee points out in the above video, the Steam Age was on the way out, but Cappiello’s image is “absolute­ly lever­ag­ing the idea that steam equals speed.”

That had been the goal since 1884, when inven­tor Ange­lo Morion­do patent­ed the first espres­so machine (see below).

The bulk brew­er caused a stir at the Turin Gen­er­al Expo­si­tion. Speed wise, it was a great improve­ment over the old method, in which indi­vid­ual cups were brewed in the Turk­ish style, requir­ing five min­utes per order.

This “new steam machin­ery for the eco­nom­ic and instan­ta­neous con­fec­tion of cof­fee bev­er­age” fea­tured a gas or wood burn­er at the bot­tom of an upright boil­er, and two sight glass­es that the oper­a­tor could mon­i­tor to get a feel for when to open the var­i­ous taps, to yield a large quan­ti­ty of fil­tered cof­fee. It was fast, but demand­ed some skill on the part of its human oper­a­tor.

As Jim­my Stamp explains in a Smith­son­ian arti­cle on the his­to­ry of the espres­so machine, there were  also a few bugs to work out.

Ear­ly machines’ hand-oper­at­ed pres­sure valves posed a risk to work­ers, and the cof­fee itself had a burnt taste.

Milanese café own­er Achille Gag­gia cracked the code after WWII, with a small, steam­less lever-dri­ven machine that upped the pres­sure to pro­duce the con­cen­trat­ed brew that is what we now think of as espres­so.

Stamp describes how Gaggia’s machine also stan­dard­ized the size of the espres­so, giv­ing rise to some now-famil­iar cof­fee­house vocab­u­lary:

The cylin­der on lever groups could only hold an ounce of water, lim­it­ing the vol­ume that could be used to pre­pare an espres­so. With the lever machines also came some new jar­gon: baris­tas oper­at­ing Gaggia’s spring-loaded levers coined the term “pulling a shot” of espres­so. But per­haps most impor­tant­ly, with the inven­tion of the high-pres­sure lever machine came the dis­cov­ery of cre­ma – the foam float­ing over the cof­fee liq­uid that is the defin­ing char­ac­ter­is­tic of a qual­i­ty espres­so. A his­tor­i­cal anec­dote claims that ear­ly con­sumers were dubi­ous of this “scum” float­ing over their cof­fee until Gag­gia began refer­ring to it as “caffe creme,“ sug­gest­ing that the cof­fee was of such qual­i­ty that it pro­duced its own creme.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2021.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Cof­fee Entre­pre­neur Rena­to Bialet­ti Gets Buried in the Espres­so Mak­er He Made Famous

The Life & Death of an Espres­so Shot in Super Slow Motion

The Bialet­ti Moka Express: The His­to­ry of Italy’s Icon­ic Cof­fee Mak­er, and How to Use It the Right Way

Every­thing You Ever Want­ed to Know about the Bialet­ti Moka Express: A Deep Dive Into Italy’s Most Pop­u­lar Cof­fee Mak­er

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and the­ater mak­er in NYC.

The Mystery of How a Samurai Ended up in 17th Century Venice

It would­n’t sur­prise us to come across a Japan­ese per­son in Venice. Indeed, giv­en the glob­al touris­tic appeal of the place, we could hard­ly imag­ine a day there with­out a vis­i­tor from the Land of the Ris­ing Sun. But things were dif­fer­ent in 1873, just five years after the end of the sakoku pol­i­cy that all but closed Japan to the world for two and a half cen­turies. On a mis­sion to research the mod­ern ways of the new­ly acces­si­ble out­side world, a Japan­ese del­e­ga­tion arrived in Venice and found in the state archives two let­ters writ­ten in Latin by one of their coun­try­men, dat­ed 1615 and 1616. Its author seemed to have been an emis­sary of Ōto­mo Sōrin, a feu­dal lord who con­vert­ed to Chris­tian­i­ty and once sent a mis­sion of four teenagers to meet the Pope in Rome — a mis­sion that took place ear­li­er, in 1586.

So who could this undoc­u­ment­ed Japan­ese trav­el­er in the fif­teen-tens have been? That ques­tion lies at the heart of the sto­ry told by Evan “Nerd­writer” Puschak in his new video above. The let­ter’s sig­na­ture of Haseku­ra Roke­mon would’ve con­sti­tut­ed a major clue, but the name seems not to have rung a bell with any­one at the time.

“In 1873, there was like­ly no one on plan­et Earth who knew why Haseku­ra Roke­mon was in Venice in 1615,” says Puschak. The rea­sons have to do with the arrival of Chris­tian­i­ty in Japan — or at least the arrival of the first major Jesuit mis­sion­ary — in 1549. Not every ruler looked kind­ly on their work, and espe­cial­ly not Toy­oto­mi Hideyoshi, who ordered them removed from the coun­try in 1587 and lat­er had 26 Catholics cru­ci­fied in Nagasa­ki.

Hideyoshi was suc­ceed­ed by the more tol­er­ant Toku­gawa Ieya­su (1543–1616), dur­ing whose rule the Japan­ese-speak­ing Fran­cis­can fri­ar Luis Sote­lo arrived in Japan. Over the ensu­ing decade, he worked not just to spread his faith but also to build hos­pi­tals, one of which suc­cess­ful­ly treat­ed a Euro­pean con­cu­bine of the feu­dal lord Date Masamune. The two men got on, real­iz­ing the mutu­al ben­e­fit their rela­tion­ship could bring: per­haps Sote­lo could found a new dio­cese in Date’s north­ern ter­ri­to­ry, and per­haps Date could estab­lish links with the Span­ish empire. In order to accom­plish the lat­ter, he had a ship built and a team assem­bled for a mis­sion to Europe, includ­ing Sote­lo him­self. He sent with them a loy­al retain­er, a samu­rai by the name of Haseku­ra Roke­mon — or to use his full name, Haseku­ra Rokue­mon Tsune­na­ga, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture for his meet­ing with the pope and adop­tion of Roman cit­i­zen­ship. He may have been Japan­ese, but a mere tourist he cer­tain­ly was­n’t.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The 17th Cen­tu­ry Japan­ese Samu­rai Who Sailed to Europe, Met the Pope & Became a Roman Cit­i­zen

21 Rules for Liv­ing from Miyamo­to Musashi, Japan’s Samu­rai Philoso­pher (1584–1645)

A Mis­chie­vous Samu­rai Describes His Rough-and-Tum­ble Life in 19th Cen­tu­ry Japan

How to Be a Samu­rai: A 17th Cen­tu­ry Code for Life & War

Hand-Col­ored 1860s Pho­tographs Reveal the Last Days of Samu­rai Japan

Meet Yasuke, Japan’s First Black Samu­rai War­rior

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

How Far Back in History Can You Start to Understand English?

It’s easy to imag­ine the myr­i­ad dif­fi­cul­ties with which you’d be faced if you were sud­den­ly trans­port­ed a mil­len­ni­um back in time. But if you’re a native (or even pro­fi­cient) Eng­lish speak­er in an Eng­lish-speak­ing part of the world, the lan­guage, at least, sure­ly would­n’t be a prob­lem. Or so you’d think, until your first encounter with utter­ances like “þat troe is daed on gaerde” or “þa rokes for­leten urne tun.” Both of those sen­tences appear in the new video above from Simon Rop­er, in which he deliv­ers a mono­logue begin­ning in the Eng­lish of the fifth cen­tu­ry and end­ing in the Eng­lish of the end of the last mil­len­ni­um.

An Eng­lish­man spe­cial­iz­ing in videos about lin­guis­tics and anthro­pol­o­gy, Rop­er has pulled off this sort of feat before: we pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured him here on Open Cul­ture for his per­for­mance of a Lon­don accent as it evolved through 660 years.

But writ­ing and deliv­er­ing a mono­logue that works its way through a mil­len­ni­um and a half of change in the Eng­lish lan­guage is obvi­ous­ly a thornier endeav­or, not least because it involves lit­er­al thorns — the þ char­ac­ters, that is, used in the Old Eng­lish Latin alpha­bet. They’re pro­nounced like th, which you can hear when Rop­er speaks the sen­tences quot­ed ear­li­er, which trans­late to “The tree is dead in the yard” and “The rooks aban­doned our town.”

The word trans­late should give us pause, since we’re only talk­ing about Eng­lish. But then, Eng­lish has under­gone such a dra­mat­ic evo­lu­tion that, at far enough of a remove, we might as well be talk­ing about dif­fer­ent lan­guages. What Rop­er empha­sizes is that the changes did­n’t hap­pen sud­den­ly. Non-Scan­di­na­vian lis­ten­ers may lack even an inkling that his farmer of the year 450 is talk­ing about sheep and pigs with the words skēpu and swīnu, but his final lines, in which he speaks of pos­sess­ing “all the hot cof­fee I need” and “friends I did­n’t have in New York” in the year 2000, will pose no dif­fi­cul­ty to Anglo­phones any­where in the world. Even his list of agri­cul­tur­al wealth around the ear­ly thir­teenth cen­tu­ry — “We habben an god hus, we habben mani felds” — could make you believe that a trip 600 years in the past would be, as they said in Mid­dle Eng­lish, no trou­ble.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Trac­ing Eng­lish Back to Its Old­est Known Ances­tor: An Intro­duc­tion to Pro­to-Indo-Euro­pean

Hear the Evo­lu­tion of the Lon­don Accent Over 660 Years: From 1346 to 2006

What Shakespeare’s Eng­lish Sound­ed Like, and How We Know It

Where Did the Eng­lish Lan­guage Come From?: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

A Brief Tour of British & Irish Accents: 14 Ways to Speak Eng­lish in 84 Sec­onds

The Entire His­to­ry of Eng­lish in 22 Min­utes

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

« Go BackMore in this category... »
Quantcast