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Updated: May 12, 2025
In the year 1586, a Protestant zealot, a soldier, writes: 'When the belles tole to the Lectorer, the trumpetts sound to the Stages, whareat the wicked faction of Rome lawgeth for joy, while the godly weepe for sorrowe. Woe is me! the play houses are pestered when the churches are naked.
Att last the trumpetts blowes, putt yourselves in order; there is nothing but outcryes, clapping of hands, & capering, that they may have better stomach to their meat. There comes a dozen of great kettles full of beaten Indian corne dressed with mince meate. The wisest begins his speech, giving heaven thanks to have brought such generous ffrench to honnour them so.
They weare resolved to goe to the ffrench the next spring, because they weare quite out of stocke. The feast of the dead consumed a great deale of it. They blamed us, saying we should not trust any that we did not know. They upon this asked if we are where the trumpetts are blowne.
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