FIVE

The Weaver’s Daughter
Soars

The repertoire of ballads collected from Agnes Lyle of Kilbarchan demonstrates that this singer brings to her ballads not only her competence in a traditional oral technique but also the ideals and genius of her personal aesthetic. To some extent this aesthetic finds expression in traditional ballad structure and ballad language, the common vehicles of oral technique. Especially in her quatrain ballads, she relies on such elements as formulaic phrasing, commonplace stanzas, repetition, the three-act structure, and annular, binary, and trinary structures of other sorts. In exploitation of these traditional resources Agnes Lyle is competent and more than competent. In her “Mary Hamilton,” for instance, she frames the essential action with a prologue presenting Mary’s arrival in court and an epilogue presenting her final encounter with the king. Within this frame she moves the story through three dramatic and well-organized scenes or acts. The first of these acts consists of a triad of paired stanzas. The second consists of a pair of paired stanzas. The third consists of another triad of paired stanzas, but, to make the act longer and fuller since it is the most important of the three, the triad is framed by a ring. There is a nice irony built into the character structure, with none of the characters quite fitting standard roles of hero, heroine, or villain. Tension and suspense, achieved by the delayed appearance of the king, resolve not in the rescue of the heroine but in her heroic refusal of such an easy solution. In this fine version of “Mary Hamilton” the singer expresses her aesthetic impulse almost entirely by the nuanced use of the traditional resources of oral ballad technique. What is true of “Mary Hamilton,” in this regard, is true of the quatrain ballads as a group, as Chapter 3 has demonstrated.

Though Agnes Lyle is quite responsive to the peculiarities of each separate ballad tradition, her ballads, like those of Mrs. Brown, often give the impression of being assimilated into a generic narrative structure which exists independent of the particular ballad. Mrs. Brown’s couplet ballads, in particular, have much of the complexity usually reserved for quatrain ballads. But when Agnes Lyle struggles with the couplet or some other uncongenial metrical medium she sometimes produces an unsatisfactory, amorphous rendition. In three cases, however, the struggle has led her to the discovery of unique narrative and aesthetic potential in the material of a particular ballad tradition. In these three cases she goes beyond mere responsiveness to deep intuition. Each of these three ballads grows organically, not stretched over a generalized narrative framework, but informed by an intuited narrative principle inherent in the very concept of the ballad in question. For “Babylon” the singer had to go beyond standard ballad technique to discover an adequate primary narrative principle. But for “The Cruel Mother” and “The Braes o Yarrow” she found within the common resources of balladry a pair of techniques that she could elevate to primary narrative principles.

Because “Babylon” has a unique structure it would seem to belong to a somewhat different genre from that of the ballads considered so far in this study. The analysis of those ballads indicates that there is some sense in talking about a genre of Anglo-Scottish classic oral ballads. This genre admits a structural definition analogous to the structural definitions of märchen based upon Propp’s analysis. The definition can be formulated in terms of the characteristic structuring forms and patterns identified in earlier chapters. Agnes Lyle’s quatrain ballads, such as “Mary Hamilton,” “Johnie Scot,” and “Lord Derwentwater” exhibit these characteristic structuring forms and patterns and belong to this genre, as do all the ballads of Mrs. Brown, even the couplet ballads. And many of Agnes Lyle’s other ballads likewise aspire to membership in this genre, whether or not they achieve it.

There are, however, ballads in the English-language tradition which have always troubled scholars. Certainly the riddle or wit-combat ballads (Child 1, 2, 3, and 46), “Edward” (Child 13), “The Maid Freed From the Gallows” (Child 95), and “Our Goodman” (Child 274) do not derive their fundamental structure from a complex of annular, binary, and trinary stanzaic, narrative, and character patterns, though they may admit some of these patterns incidentally.¹ Hence, they do not conform to any definition of ballad which uses such structures as defining criteria. Because these troublesome ballads have unique particular structures, each seems to constitute its own genre. The idea of a one-member genre or genus is not new. The medieval scholastics held that among angels there is no species or individuation within genus: each angel, exhausting the possibilities of its own kind of being, is a genus unto itself. In the more sublunary genera, on the other hand, there are often several possibilities of species (e.g., Canis canis, Canis lupus, and Canis latrans), and innumerable possibilities of individuation. So within balladry. Versions of specific ballads, such as “Mary Hamilton,” “Fair Janet,” “Little Musgrave,” or “Sir Patrick Spens,” while remaining individual and distinctive, exhibit at the same time (in all orally recreated renditions, at least) the common generic structure of oral classic ballads. But “Edward,” “The Maid Freed from the Gallows,” and certain other ballads do not exhibit this common generic structure. In each case the underlying and defining structural principle is unique and so limited in its narrative possibilities that it can give rise to only one ballad or ballad group. “The Maid Freed from the Gallows,” for instance, demonstrates astonishing uniformity not only in English tradition, but throughout Europe, from the Magyar plains to the Scandinavian fjords, as Eleanor Long has shown (1971). Whatever the language, a person in trouble calls upon a succession of relatives, who disappoint, and a lover, who usually succeeds. This narrative idea does not produce multiple stories. All realizations are so similar as to be identified with one another. “The Maid,” surprisingly enough, turns out to be an angel. In the case of some of these ballads, the genre or genus proves a little more versatile, admitting of differentiation into two or three individual ballad types. The group of wit-combat ballads, for example, may constitute a distinctive genre, but clearly that genre admits of little speciation, the possibilities for structuring narratives around this particular sort of verbal duel being limited.

“Babylon” seems to be such another ballad, differentiating into a limited number of sub-types. In the English-language tradition this ballad divides into two main sub-traditions, differing principally in the denouement. In one sub-tradition the three sisters are accosted by an outlaw, who offers either marriage or death. The first two sisters, the meek ones, simply choose death. But the third sister says, in effect, “You’re not going to get away with this; my brother will avenge me.” The outlaw asks her brother’s name, and she says it is Baby Lon, or some such outlandish name. Recognizing his own name, and too late recognizing his sister, the brother kills himself. The second sub-tradition, to which the Lyle “Babylon” belongs, is like the first, up to the point where the third sister starts making threats. In this sub-tradition she says she has not one but three brothers to avenge her. The outlaw asks about the brothers, and she says that one is such and such (usually a minister), the second is such and such, and the third is an outlaw in these very woods. Recognizing the description of himself and his brothers, the outlaw then kills himself. The essential difference, then, is that in the first sub-tradition the anagnorisis of the tragedy is consequent upon revelation of the name, whereas in the second, it is consequent upon revelation of the livelihood of the three brothers.² As often happens with ballads, individual renditions seldom realize fully the Platonic essence of the ballad. In the case of “Babylon,” however, two of the Child versions are quite Platonic. The A version is a fully realized rendition of the first sub-type, with the outlaw recognizing his own name. And the Lyle text is a fully realized rendition of the second sub-type, with the outlaw recognizing the description of himself and his brothers. From this point of view the Lyle text is the only “perfect” version of the second sub-type in either Child or Bronson.

In this second sub-tradition the structure grows out of the cast of characters: a father (implicit here, explicit in the Child E version), three daughters, their three brothers. The incipit, establishing that there are three daughters, unfolds into a story of encounters between three sisters and an outlaw or “outlyer,” and this third encounter in turn unfolds into three parts as the third sister describes her three brothers (see Diagram 1). This unfolding technique, though uncommon in balladry, is an old ploy. A highly specialized type of incremental repetition, it can be defined as follows: A single narrative element unfolds to reveal a repetitive series of n elements. The last of these elements in turn unfolds to reveal a new series of n elements. And so on.

DIAGRAM 1

“Unfolding” in “Babylon”

In the New Testament book of Revelation, for instance, the great book has seven seals. The breaking of the seventh seal introduces a new group of seven—in this case angels with trumpets. And so on.

In Revelation the device is a pre-existent structure into which John has assimilated his vision,³ a framework upon which he has hung his narrative. In “Babylon” the device is part of the very concept of the ballad. Without the three daughters there would be no ballad, without the triple encounter there would be no plot, and without the triple identification of brothers there would be no denouement.

Although the controlling structure in the Lyle version is the unfolding structure, the trinary principle is at work as well, determining that there shall be three sisters, not two or five, and three brothers, not two or one. The binary principle is at work balancing stanzas in question and answer sticho-mythia. These forces, however, are not the fundamental narrative forces in the ballad. Nor is the fundamental narrative force the stanzaic structure, in which a prologue describing the three sisters, introduces the three acts corresponding to the triple encounter of maidens and outlaw (see Diagram 1). But an examination of this act structure will show how the unfolding principle dominates it.

The ballad unfolds the first time when the prologue opens into the three-act triple encounter. The first two acts are composed of three pairs of balanced stanzas. Each balance is connected by action more than by any of the principles of repetition so common in the quatrain ballads. The first balance of each act describes one of the sisters being accosted by the outlaw. The second balance contains the dialogue. The third balance describes the murder followed by the prophetic reddening of the knife as the outlaw tries to clean it. Act II consists of a simple repetition of Act I, with the second sister substituted for the first (see Diagram 2).

DIAGRAM 2

Narrative Structure of “Babylon”

The first balance and a half of Act III repeat the corresponding stanzas of the first and second acts. But the second couplet of the second balance, in which the last sister mentions the brothers who would protect her honor, prepares for the second unfolding. This unfolding occurs in the third balance when the outlaw, in one stanza, asks who her brothers are, and the maiden, in three stanzas, tells him they are a minister, a ploughman, and an outlaw.

A narrative unfolds when the last item in a series opens out into a new series of the same size. In the Lyle “Babylon” the series which unfolds is, to be very precise, the series of killings which is narrated in the first member of the third balance in each act. In Act I and II the outlaw kills his sisters. In Act III the sister kills the outlaw brother. Her weapon is the triple revelation. Thus the four stanzas in which the girl kills her brother by telling him who she is and who he is, correspond structurally to the first member of the third balance in the other two acts, in which the outlaw literally kills his sisters. The final stanza of the ballad, in which the outlaw falls on his own knife, completes the balance and fulfills the prophecy contained in the second member of the balance in the preceding acts (see Diagram 2).

The irony of the concept and the structural perfection of the realization are the two principal aesthetic claims of this rendition. Like many of the pieces in Agnes Lyle’s repertoire this couplet ballad is in a meter she finds intractable, but by abandoning the effort to conform its irony to the shape of the quatrain ballads, she is able to find its true individual structure. Her genius shows in her ability to intuit the essence of this ironic tragedy and realize that essence perfectly. Although not a ballad of the same kind as the quatrain ballads discussed in chapter 4, it is, of its own kind, equally competent, and deserves to be ranked with those pieces.

In “Babylon,” as in the quatrain ballads, Agnes Lyle expresses her aesthetic in a traditional structure, although in this case not a generalized structure but a structure particular to the tradition of this ballad. In other ballads, however, she sometimes expresses her aesthetic in ways particular to the singer herself, not to the tradition. Especially does this happen when her grasp of traditional technique proves inadequate to the task at hand, and she must leap beyond the limitations of her own technique. Because her technique is based on the standard ballad quatrain, she is not forced to make that leap in her songs in this meter. But her two most successful pieces, “The Cruel Mother” and “The Braes o Yarrow,” admirably illustrate this leap to originality. Each of these pieces is in a meter which is, for her, not standard. In each case the success of the piece demanded that the singer go beyond mere mechanical mastery of technique to a total understanding of that technique at some deeper level, beyond mere mechanical mastery of plot to an understanding of the inherent tensions and conflicts in that plot. For “The Cruel Mother” this success required the intuition that the ballad could be seen as a story of transformation in the life of the woman. The technique of transformation from narrative to speech which has always been a part of ballad style provides the perfect vehicle for expression of that intuition. For “The Braes o Yarrow” this success required the intuition that the ballad was about action and reaction, that is, about exteriority and interiority. The objective, concrete narrative technique which has always been a part of ballad style, by focusing on different kinds of things to narrate in the two halves of the ballad, could in this case provide the proper vehicle for the intuition. In neither of these cases is the core of the ballad the standard three-act stanzaic structure, harmonized by supporting or contrapuntal narrative and character structures, that is so well articulated in the ballad-meter ballads. Rather, in each case the singer has developed a unique structure based on some other characteristic ballad technique. And in each case this technique provides a symbolic correlative for the major thematic idea of the ballad in question.

In “The Cruel Mother” the narrative principle, causative repetition, is one commonly but not universally found in the Child 20 tradition. That tradition includes three basic narrative elements: the description of the murder, the accusation by the ghostly boys, and the prediction of punishment. Some texts, such as the Child O text, include all three elements. Some texts, such as the Child J, include or stress only two. And some, such as the Child L, stress only one of the elements, to the exclusion or near exclusion of the other two. The Lyle version stresses the murder and the accusation, and reduces discussion of the punishment to a single line, repeated once. Causative repetition is traditional in versions that include both murder and accusation: The wording of the stanzas describing the murder and burial determines the wording of the stanzas presenting the boys’ accusation. The Lyle text takes this narrative technique and pushes it to its logical ultimate. Using the transforming technique of causative repetition as an organizing principle, she has produced a perfectly symmetrical song of considerable psychological subtlety.

As Diagram 3 shows, the song divides into matching units of nine stanzas each. The foci of the annular structures of the two units are the killing itself and the description of the killing, stanzas 5 and 15 respectively. The focus of the annular structure of the ballad as a whole is stanza 10, in which the pretty boys reveal themselves to be the murdered children of the lady of Lurk.

Part I of the song describes a lady leading a double life with great success for seven years. She has a secret lover but long escapes pregnancy. When she finally does become pregnant she manages to conceal the fact and dispose of the infants. Since she gave birth without the help of a midwife, she has no reason to suppose that her actions will ever become known. So secure is she in her immunity that she can even allow herself to make conventional sentimental remarks about (as she supposes) other people’s children.

Part II is a transformation, stanza by stanza, of Part I. The pretty little boys whom the lady did not take seriously now describe to her, incident by incident, her whole secret life. Each detail, exactly as it happened, is thrown back in her face. The ballad technique is especially effective here: a few simple adjustments transform an objective statement of fact into a damning accusation.

This transformation of Part I into Part II is mediated by a single stanza, the tenth, set squarely in the middle of the song. All the lady’s security crumbles when she hears the boys address her as “Mother dear!” A simple word uncovers a hitherto unsuspected relationship and transforms the whole reality of the woman’s life. The effect on the listener, too, is electrifying. Who has not had the eerie feeling of being watched under circumstances in which there was no way anyone could be watching? Who has not had the experience of being observed doing something they did not really want anyone to see them doing, even if it was no more than picking their nose or scratching their rear end? The motif of the secret action observed is used with chilling effect in suspense films such as Hitchcock’s Rear Window, as well as in this ballad.

DIAGRAM 3

Causative Repetition as Structuring Principle in “The Cruel Mother”

The course of events in the lady’s life, as narrated in Part I, transforms her from a simple girl in love with a man below her station into a hardened murderess of infants, incapable of remorse. The recapitulation of this course of events, in Part II, transforms this monster into a cringing wretch, begging to be saved by the very children she has murdered. The subject of the ballad, then, is transformation: the transformation of innocence into arrogance, of arrogance into abjection, of fact into accusation, of immunity into culpability, of living soul into ghost, of victim into aggressor, of concealment into revelation, of object into word, of event into discourse, of objectivity into subjectivity. Causative repetition serves as the ideal vehicle for expressing this transformation. But in the last two stanzas of Part II, when plot considerations do not demand exact correspondence and wording does not permit it, the transformation still occurs on the conceptual level: the “father’s ha[ll]” becomes “heaven hie” (our Father’s house, where there are many mansions), the facetious offer of fine silks becomes a desperate plea for prayers, and the sentimental epithet “pretty boys” becomes, by the addition of a simple “my,” an appeal to kinship that is self-damning. It was the unique achievement of Agnes Lyle to discover in the logic of a ballad technique, causative repetition, the ideal vehicle for this song of transformation.

For “The Braes o Yarrow” this singer’s artistic task is formidable. She must fashion an effective and controlled text in an uncongenial medium with severe rhyming restraints. The meter is a feminine-rhyming quatrain of alternating four-and three-beat lines. The rhyme-scheme admits only words that rhyme with Yarrow. Agnes Lyle, however, is more than equal to the task and produces here perhaps the single most powerful piece in the repertoire.

The success of the ballad is made possible in part by compensating factors that help offset the limitations imposed by meter and rhyme. The “Yarrow” tradition is very rich in Scotland. There are three or four separate ballads, and perhaps a lyric song as well, subsumed under Child 214-215. These pieces exchange stanzas among themselves rather freely and generate a good stock of model stanzas. The rhyme requirement is interpreted rather freely. Among acceptable rhymes for Yarrow are, from this ballad, yellow, sorrow, sore O, and thorough. The word itself seems to have at least three distinct usages: (1) the name of a plant; (2) a geographical name—river, village, or region; (3) a metonym for fields or downs. As a result of all these factors—the number of songs based on the Yarrow rhyme, the multitude of stanzas generated in these songs, the liberal interpretation of what constitutes a rhyme, and the several meanings of the word to be rhymed—the restraints on the singer are rather less stringent than might at first be imagined. Indeed, as with the “Mary Hamilton” tradition, there is almost an embarrassment of riches to choose from in the form of formulas and commonplaces (or “context-bound formulaic stanzas,” as Andersen would prefer to call them, since they are particular to one tradition). It is this richness within the Yarrow tradition itself that compensates for the fact that the singer can not draw upon her standard quatrain repertoire of commonplaces and formulas.

Nevertheless, the necessity of solving the special artistic problems of “The Braes o Yarrow” has affected the over-all architectonics. The character structure is relentlessly annular, but the strain shows in the stanzaic structure. Strain here is perhaps to be expected because the metrical and rhyming restrictions are in effect stanzaic restrictions. The ballad has, in fact, two stanzaic structures, not one, corresponding to the external-internal split operative in the ballad and to the narrative and supra-narrative functions of the stanzas (see Diagram 4). The first of these is a three-act structure framed by a one-stanza prologue and two-stanza epilogue reminiscent of “Mary Hamilton.” Most of the balances consist of statement and response, usually in the form of causative repetition, though in the balance at stanzas 12-13 the statement is in indirect discourse, and the causative repetition links 12 with 11 instead of 13. The three acts divide the narrative cleanly into preparation, battle, and mourning.

This three-act structure is counterpointed very strongly by a two-part stanzaic structure corresponding to the movement of the ballad on the affective or supra-narrative level. The annular character structure reinforces this two-part structure, pivoting as it does on the very point between stanzas 11 and 12 which serves as the break point for the alternate stanzaic structure (see Diagram 5). The differences between Part I and Part II are multiple and fundamental. The first half of the ballad concentrates on the hero, the second half on the heroine. The first half concentrates on the action: the stanzas are there to tell what parties are involved and what these parties do; all is for the sake of story. The second half concentrates on feelings; the stanzas are there to tell what the parties feel; all is for the sake of character revelation. The difference between the two parts is the difference between epic and lyric, between plot and character, between doing and feeling, between the physical and the spiritual, between action and contemplation. This difference between the two parts corresponds to a fundamental duality in worldview. And in the worldview of Scottish balladry that duality includes the difference between male and female, as the character structure emphasizes.

DIAGRAM 4

“The Braes o Yarrow”: Complementary Stanzaic Structures

Part I of the ballad provides rather conventional action and confrontation scenes. First the brothers threaten the hero and he defies them. Then the hero announces to the heroine his heroic intentions, to which she, like the mother in “Johnie Scot” and the boy in “Sir Patrick Spens,” responds with misgivings. Finally the hero confronts the three brothers and is treacherously slain. All action is clearly motivated, but the focus is on action and not on character. What is explicitly stated to happen constitutes the message being conveyed. Of course the stanzas have a supra-narrative function, as in all ballads. But this supra-narrative function is primarily foreshadowing. The commonplace stanza used as an incipit, for instance, “signals violent confrontation,” often about a woman, according to Andersen (1985, 124; for more on supra-narrative function see chapter 6). And according to Rogers (1980, 96), hair combing, a symbolic act performed in stanza 7, often indicates waiting for a beloved, perhaps in vain.⁴ The principal connotation of the action in the context of this ballad concerns plot: The hero won’t come back. Throughout Part I, then, the principal information conveyed, both explicitly and by implication, concerns external action.

DIAGRAM 5

“The Braes o Yarrow”: Character Structure

In Part II, however, the actual message of each stanza goes far beyond the external action portrayed. The shift in emphasis occurs right in the middle of a scene, when the stabbed hero calls his man John to his side. He is very careful about how John is to tell the heroine of his death:

At the moment of death his thought is directed more to her than to himself. Tell her not to grieve, he says. His sleep will be peaceful and “sound.” The sentiment is hardly original, but then, neither are love and death. The reason for pointing to the stanza is to indicate the precise point at which the ballad begins to concentrate on how people feel and react rather than on what they do. The hero in this stanza confirms that indeed he loves his wife, and it was conjugal love, not stubborn pride, which motivated him to fight. The sleep image of stanza 11 is carried over into stanza 13. There the heroine reveals how closely in tune with her husband she is. At the moment he “falls asleep” she too is sleeping, but far from soundly; disturbing images of pulling heather with her husband (as for a marriage bed?) fill her dreams.

In Part II of “Braes o Yarrow” the heroine reveals herself by what she says, but much more by what she does. Edith Randam Rogers, in her study of ballad symbolism The Perilous Hunt (1980), comments on this aspect of ballad style:

The “real” quality of symbols is closely related to the eminently visual nature of ballad diction. Occidental culture, as it is, tends to communicate through the eyes; ballads, however, go even beyond the customary proportions in translating into visual terms many phenomena normally associated with any of the other four senses, or none of them. . . . The pleasure of touch is communicated in visual terms when we watch a girl comb her lover’s hair. We shall further see that various psychological processes also become visible. (2)

Stanzas 14 and 15 demonstrate striking use of visible actions to render psychological processes visible. In stanza 14 the girl leaps on her horse, a conventional ballad response that indicates anxiety to be at the scene of trouble. But her anxiety breaks all conventional bonds. She pushes her horse to the utmost. When it can do no more she leaps off and runs ahead on foot. “Sometimes she rade and sometimes she gaed.” Her anxiety has a manic quality, however. Sometimes she has to run because she can’t sit still on her horse; but sometimes she can not even stand, for “aye between she fell in a soune.” The manic action continues in the next stanza. Variants of stanza 15 appear in a number of the Yarrow ballads, but never to such effect. The grotesque image of a young woman riding home with her lover’s body dragging in the road behind her, tied by its hand to her long yellow hair, is a compelling icon of abandonment and grief.

As Rogers suggests, this process of expressing inner states by visible actions, which may be called objectifying, is a standard ballad practice. Indeed, objectivity is one of the hallmarks of balladry, as of much of Western folk narrative. In an objective narrative style objectifying through speech or action is almost the only way to reveal inner states (See the next chapter). Usually the technique appears consistently throughout a piece. But in the Lyle “Braes o Yarrow” there is a polarization. The first part concentrates on action, with no hint of the significance of the action. At the end of Part I, in fact, the true plot is complete. The ballad could have ended here, for “Sir Patrick Spens” does end at just this point, with the betrayed hero dead and his wife waiting in vain for his return. The Yarrow ballad goes on, however. In the second half all is interiority, all is significance. The words and actions are meaningless apart from their emotional effect. They accomplish nothing, but they express much. And objectification, a kind of incarnation without which the internal can not be externalized, here becomes a symbol of the duality that structures this ballad and the worldview out of which it grows.

The central stanzas of Part II express the heroine’s grief in manic and grotesque terms. The final two stanzas take a more conventional turn. In these stanzas the woman’s father rebukes her for the excess of her grief. She replies that he has no right to speak. He himself is the cause of her grief. These stanzas describing such an exchange between a father and a bereaved child constitute a stanza cluster or “theme,” and both “Sheath and Knife” and “Jamie Douglas” end with realizations of the same “theme.” This “theme” in “Braes o Yarrow” resonates with the echo of its use wherever it occurs. Thus, in the last two stanzas the woman’s grief, previously expressed in all its particularity, is now subsumed to the universal through the use of narrative material familiar from other contexts. Her story becomes one more chapter in the universal history of infamy.

The cliché has it that great art is born out of struggle. In the case of Agnes Lyle the struggle was at least in part with the ballad medium itself. When her medium refused to conform to the standards she set for herself in the quatrain ballads, her material sometimes defeated her. But in “Babylon” her struggle with the material yielded a highly competent ballad, fully realizing the unique narrative structure informing its tradition. And in “The Cruel Mother” and “The Braes o Yarrow” the struggle yielded something more: ballads which elicit the kind of emotional involvement and reward the kind of close analysis that great poetry and great song elicit and reward. For:

What is called oral tradition is as intricate and meaningful an art form as its derivative “literary tradition.” . . . It is not simply a less polished, more haphazard, or cruder second cousin twice removed, to literature. (Lord 1960, 141)