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Naming names. by Gillian Polack

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This month, I asked the public what this post should be about. Most people wanted biographical posts, but Australian author Glenda Larke asked (on Twitter) “What is it about 19th century women named Isabell-e(a)? Byrd, Burton, Eberhardt?”

I explained that I knew the answer to this, but it wouldn’t make her happy. She wanted it anyhow. This is where I destroy Glenda Larke’s joy by talking about the names girl-children are given in the English-speaking world.

Some given names are consistent across a cultural or religious group: Mary and its variants is the most important one for any Christian society and Sarah appears and reappears in Jewish societies. The critical factor to understanding how the use of names changes over time is the nature of the society. In the English Middle Ages some parts of culture where we now use writing were almost purely oral. In the seventeenth century a race to get work into print began. It had some traits in common with the current rise of the ebook, but that’s a topic for another day. What’s important is that right now, we’re besotted with the written world. The databases used to find name usage and other cultural traits get bigger and bigger. It also means that evidence for naming practices changed profoundly from the later fifteenth century.




It’s the evidence that changed. This is critical. If one goes back before printing, then the difference in sources has to be allowed for.

Most often, when people discuss names, the data they talk about comes from census reports (which work best from the nineteenth century) or from birth, death and marriage reports. For some places and times, scholars have used these and other archival sources to find stuff out at a much more secure level. I was taught by one of these scholars (J Ambrose Raftis) and another favourite has put some of his work online. (If all of you click on that link and download Dave Postles’ essays has put up, you will seriously skew his usage statistics, by the way, for not nearly enough people know his work.) I use these if I’m seriously researching, for the scholars in particular cover my places and times, but if I want a quick answer, I will check Google Books. 

The scanned books in Google Books can be accessed via program called Ngrams. For me, it’s a place to start. All I’m doing today is grabbing from memory and from that place to start. This is partly because the books I have on naming history are in storage, and partly because it’s seven in the morning. Mostly it’s to show you what we can find out when we look at how often a word is used in hundreds of thousands (maybe millions) of books.

When I did my first doctorate, I could (and did) read almost all known surviving Old French epic legends and even more romances from the High Middle Ages (plus a bunch of closely related chronicles) in twenty libraries mostly in France and England. These days, if I were to say “Let me read all the English language historical fiction published over 150 years” I’d not succeed. The Digital Humanities are a wonderful thing, for they use tools that mean we can ask questions of large numbers of texts, and can interpret subtleties. It’s not the same work as I did all those years ago, but it’s for the same purpose. Cultural analysis. Understanding how everything fits together, The tool I used to find out about those names is simple and effective and needs to be used with caution. It’s something I use as a novelist, rather than as an historian. It tells me roughly how often a word was used, then I can click down and see some of the sources that were sued to make that determination.

The very best place to start this morning isn’t right at the very beginning, then, it’s with a set of search terms that will show approximately how common something is in relation to similar things. Mary is my yardstick here, for I already know it’s the most popular name. At the other end of the spectrum we have names that are loved but not used so widely. Fortunately, my name and Glenda’s both fit this category. I’ve not given spelling variants for Gillian or Glenda, but I’ve told the search engine that the case doesn’t matter, 

The results show clear patterns. If I were being serious about this, I’d need to compare these patterns to the patterns from other sources. Today I’m not serious, because there’s no coffee for me until I’ve put this up for you to read. So today, you can admire a graph of results from printed books collected and scanned by libraries.

The most popular name appears in all the sources, not only in this set. If a name appears more in fiction, however, then it will have more appearances in this database and if the name is particular to any group of people and never reaches beyond that group, then this particular dataset can be very misleading. The database consists of printed material, including newspapers, so it only covers the literate world. The earlier you go the more you know how popular your name is in relation to the higher echelons of society, and the more recent, the more your name fits into the wider society. Printed evidence about names has changed significantly over time.

Fortunately, it’s not misleading at all for Isabella. We have evidence of the name being popular in the Middle Ages. Because there were queens and princesses with that name including Isabella of France, who appears briefly in one of my novels, Isabella entered our printed records at the top of the heap. That’s why I can afford to be lazy. Prior knowledge helps, as does the fact that the name Isabella started its modern journey in a position that fitted the name to enter printed records just as soon as printing was invented.



Some names hit a sudden popularity and stick around for a bit and then another name replaces them as the cool one of the instant. Isabella and its variants was at its most popular in these printed records in the second half of the sixteenth century. It was at its least poplar the half century before then. It went from unpopularity to being a favourite to give girls. After that its popularity fluctuated (although it never faded entirely) until recently. Since the 1980s, the name has climbed gently in popularity.

From this, I can answer Glenda’s question. Every Isabella Glenda names falls within periods when the name was reasonably popular. Not as popular as Mary. Nothing’s as popular as Mary, which is another story. Nevertheless, Isabella was popular and still is.

The reason for the great success of Glenda’s women, then, is because of who they were as individuals, when they lived and what opportunities they had or took advantage of for themselves. The name was popular enough at those times so that there would have been far more Isabellas who led small, quiet lives.


Where the Living Meet the Dead: The Capuchin Monastery Catacombs - By Anna Mazzola

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Once you’ve had your fill of gelato, cannoli and palazzi, you can descend from the dusty streets of Palermo into the cool of the Capuchin catacombs.

There, hanging from the walls, lying on shelves, sitting on benches and staring out from coffins are, it is said, nearly 8,000 corpses. Those on view are almost all clothed and in various states of decomposition, most mere skeletons, some still with remnants of skin and hair. One sports a fine waxed moustache.


A surprising discovery


The catacombs were created in the late 16th century when the Capuchin Monastery outgrew its cemetery. When the friars exhumed corpses from the overflowing charnel house to transfer them to the new cemetery, they found that something incredible had happened: forty-five friars had been naturally mummified. Their faces were still recognizable.


To the Capuchins this was clearly an act of God. Instead of burying the remains, they decided to display the bodies as relics, propping them in niches along the walls of their new cemetery.


The first body to be housed in the catacombs was that of Fra Silvestro da Gubbio, who is still greeting visitors today, holding up a sign commemorating the date of his burial (16 October 1599).



From monks to celebrities


Although the catacombs were intended to be exclusively for monks, dead priests and nuns were soon muscling their way in. Later, prominent locals paid to be buried in the catacombs and the passageways were expanded to make room for more lay people.  

From the seventeenth to the nineteenth century, thousands of wealthy citizens paid for the privilege of being on eternal display on the walls of the underground cemetery. Mummification became a status symbol, a way to preserve dignity even in death. What had begun as the Friars’ private cemetery became a sort of museum of death. 



The particularly dry atmosphere allowed for the natural preservation of the bodies. Initially, priests would lay the dead on shelves and allow them to drip until they were depleted of bodily fluids. A year later, they rinsed the dried out corpses with vinegar before re-dressing them in their best attire and allocating them to their designated room.

Divided in death


The skeletons have been arranged according to gender, occupation and social status. There's a row of religious figures, a row of professionals, a room for women, a room for infants, and a chapel for virgins. Soldiers are preserved in their dress uniforms, priests in their clerical vestments. Families wear the fashions of their era – 19thcentury bonnets, 18th century gowns.


The Sleeping Beauty


The cemetery was officially closed in 1880. However, there are two more recent arrivals. The first, in 1911, was the body of Giovanni Paterniti, Vice-Consul of the United States. The second, in 1920, was Rosalia Lombardo, who died and was embalmed aged two. She is so well preserved that she is known today as the ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ 

All in all, a thoroughly unnerving experience. I recommend it. 



Anna Mazzola is a writer of historical crime fiction. Her first novel, The Unseeing, was published in 2016. Her second, The Story Keeper, will be out in July. 

https://annamazzola.com/about/


Lesbia's Sparrow - Katherine Langrish

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Like many a great poet, Gaius Valerius Catullus didn’t live long. Born into a wealthy family near Verona in around 84 BCE, he was dead by the age of thirty: in this short space he made his mark as a lyric poet who, perhaps like Sappho, derived much of his extraordinary force from elements of his own life, so that his voice appears to speak so directly, so personally  to the reader that we feel as if we know him. He wrote fiercely and wittily of both love and hatred. Many of his poems are savagely scatological (there’s a typical example here: http://rudy.negenborn.net/catullus/text2/e97.htm ). He satirised Julius Caesar (here: http://rudy.negenborn.net/catullus/text2/e29.htm ) and was forgiven. His work survived as a single manuscript of 116 poems, so we’re lucky to have him. According to the Poetry Foundationwebsite  https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/gaius-valerius-catullus :

In general Catullus remained unknown until a manuscript known as V surfaced in Verona about 1305, only to disappear before the end of the century. Two copies were made from V (O and X). One of these copies is now in the Bodleian Library, Oxford; the other, which was probably owned by Petrarch, was copied twice (G and R in 1375) and then it, too, disappeared...

The article continues:

Invariably Catullus’s corpus fractures along divides between contradictory alternatives or tendencies: learning and passion; seriousness and frivolity; conservative values and revolutionary attitudes; ethical “piety” and vulgar obscenity; accounting and kissing; the great themes of Rome—love and betrayal, war and death; and lesser preoccupations with napkin stealing, urine, buggery, and bad breath.

Nothing not to like, then! And the rest of the article is well worth reading.


It was probably in Rome that Catullus fell in love with the woman he names ‘Lesbia’ in his poems, usually identified as Clodia Metellus, a married lady who – from what he says – seems to given him a run-around and to have had a number of other lovers besides him. Two of the best known of the poems he wrote to her, or for her, or about her, concern her pet sparrow. Known in the canon as Catullus II and Catullus III, the first poem is a delicate, lively and distinctly eroticized account of the poet watching Lesbia playing with the sparrow and offering it her finger to nip. The strength of the poem is the tension set up between the girl’s apparent absorption with her pet, and Catullus’ voyeuristic gaze. https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Translation:Catullus_2



The second poem is a lament: the sparrow is dead.  Here’s the Latin:

Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque
et quantum est hominum venustiorum;
passer mortuus est meae puellae,
passer, deliciae meae puellae,
quem plus illa oculis suis amabat;
nam mellitus erat, suamque norat
ipsa tam bene quam puella matrem,
nec sese a gremio illius movebat,
sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc
ad solam dominam usque pipiabat.
qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum
illuc unde negant redire quemquam.
at vobis male sit, malae tenebrae
Orci, quae omnia bella devoratis;
tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis.
o factum male! o miselle passer!
tua nunc opera meae puellae
flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.

And here’s a prose translation by Leonard C. Smithers, published 1894: 


O mourn, you Loves and Cupids, and all men of gracious mind. Dead is the sparrow of my girl: sparrow, darling of my girl, which she loved more than her eyes; for it was sweet as honey, and its mistress knew it as well as a girl knows her own mother. Nor did it move from her lap, but hopping round first one side then the other, to its mistress alone it continually chirped. Now it fares along that path of shadows from where nothing may ever return. May evil befall you, savage glooms of Orcus, which swallow up all things of fairness: which have snatched away from me the comely sparrow. O wretched deed! O hapless sparrow! Now on your account my girl's sweet eyes, swollen, redden with tear-drops.

This little poem is so lovely, so tender, so playfully and so deliberately conscious of the chiaroscuro created by sensuous physicality contrasted with death, it probably defies translation. So here in the rest of this post are a couple of different attempts: put them together and maybe those of us who don’t read Latin (that includes me) can get an inkling of the original? Let’s start with Lord Byron who published his own translation at the age of nineteen in ‘Hours of Idleness’, 1807:

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS (Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, etc.)

Ye Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes she lov'd:
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,
But lightly o'er her bosom mov'd:

And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
He chirrup'd oft, and, free from care,
Tun'd to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn,
From whence he never can return,
His death, and Lesbia's grief I mourn,
Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.

Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,
For thou hast ta'en the bird away:
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow,
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow;
Thou art the cause of all her woe,
Receptacle of life's decay.

Byron’s got the sweetness, but misses the emotional strength. He apostrophises the Cupids but leaves out those more weighty ‘men of gracious mind’ from the first line, and the effect is to trivialise the poem. So does his omission of the line where Catullus says that Lesbia knows the sparrow as well as a girl knows her own mother– which speaks of a strong, tender, nurturing relationship. I’m not sure he’s hit off the playful mock-heroics either: Catullus portrays this sparrow almost as a sort of Aeneas descending into the underworld... Finally it would have made better poetry, and been truer to Catullus, to have changed the order of lines in the last verse, so:

Thou [ie: the grave] art the cause of all her woe,
Receptacle of life's decay:
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow,
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow.

The poem ought to end with the girl’s swollen, tear-filled eyes – which you can feel Catullus is just longing to kiss – but Byron can’t manage it because the form he’s chosen demands that each eight-line verse rhymes AAAB/CCCB: the eighth and final line must rhyme with the fourth.  And so he ends on a vision of the grave straight from an 18th century tombstone, ‘Receptable of life’s decay’ – rather than leaving us with Catullus's erotically charged and tactile close-up of Lesbia’s face. 



Sir Richard Francis Burton does better. Here’s his translation, published in the same year as Smithers’ prose version, 1894:

LESBIA'S SPARROW

Weep every Venus, and all Cupids wail,
And men whose gentler spirits still prevail.
Dead is the Sparrow of my girl, the joy,
Sparrow, my sweeting's most delicious toy,
Whom loved she dearer than her very eyes;
For he was honeyed-pet and anywise
Knew her, as even she her mother knew;
Ne'er from her bosom's harbourage he flew
But 'round her hopping here, there, everywhere,
Piped he to none but her his lady fair.
Now must he wander o'er the darkling way
Thither, whence life-return the Fates denay.
But ah! beshrew you, evil Shadows low'ring
In Orcus ever loveliest things devouring:
Who bore so pretty a Sparrow fro' her ta'en.
(Oh hapless birdie and Oh deed of bane!)
Now by your wanton work my girl appears
With turgid eyelids tinted rose by tears.

He’s got the sweetness, the eroticism and the darkness too: he almost succeeds in the mock-heroics (‘evil Shadows low’ring/In Orcus ever loveliest  things devouring/ ...Oh hapless birdie and Oh deed of bane...’) His choice of poetic diction is an interesting blend of the archaic and stiff – ‘Thither, whence life-return the fates denay’ – and the vernacular – ‘my girl’. I think it just about works in its own right, but it’s very mannered and doesn’t sound like someone chatting to us.  

The same cannot be said of Dorothy Parker’s wonderful riff on the poem (included in ‘The Original Portable’, 1944) – which gives Lesbia a voice and some very distinct opinions.

From A Letter From Lesbia

... So, praise the gods, Catullus is away!
And let me tend you this advice, my dear:
Take any lover that you will, or may,
Except a poet. All of them are queer.

It's just the same – a quarrel or a kiss
Is but a tune to play upon his pipe.
He's always hymning that or wailing this;
Myself, I much prefer the business type.

That thing he wrote, the time the sparrow died –
(Oh, most unpleasant – gloomy, tedious words!)
I called it sweet, and made believe I cried;
The stupid fool! I've always hated birds...

It’s not, of course, a translation at all.  But I suspect Catullus would have loved it.




Picture credits

Dead Sparrow by E. Sloane Stanley, 19th c.
Lesbia and her Sparrow by Sir Edward John Poynter 
Lesbia weeping over her sparrow by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, 1866
Catullus comforting Lesbia on the death of her sparrow by Antonio Zucchi (1726-1796)

The Comfort of Jeoffy - Joan Lennon

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Lots of us remember where we were when the moon landing happened. Or 9/11. Or some other event of historical impact. But there are moments of personal history that are also pins in the map. One of those, for me, was the first time I discovered For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry, part of Jubilate Agno by Kit Smart (1722-1771). It was late at night, in a student bedsit in Toronto, and I was in the throes of one of the many sadnesses youth is prey to (most likely brought on by falling in love, hopelessly, yet again). And this poem was sweetly, superbly, warmly comforting. Even when I found out it was partly written in St Luke's Hospital for Lunatics where Smart was incarcerated, that it wasn't even published until 1939, and that the poet died in debtors' prison, it didn't matter.  It made me smile the way that unattainable boyfriend, whichever one he was, never would have.  And it still does.
Give yourself a moment to read it, especially if it's been a while -
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God, duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For is this done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having considered God and himself he will consider his neighbor.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day’s work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord’s watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.
For he will not do destruction if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness when God tells him he’s a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him, and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.
For the dexterity of his defense is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord’s poor, and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually--Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can sit up with gravity, which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick, which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master’s bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is afraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Icneumon rat, very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God’s light about him both wax and fire.
For the electrical fire is the spiritual substance which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, though he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.
(from www.poets.org)
I've since discovered Benjamin Britten's Rejoice in the Lamb (1943) which includes part of the Jeoffry fragment.  Here is Miranda Colchester's performance -
I love what the Australian youth choir Gondwana Singers make of the work - well worth a listen -
Below is a page from the manuscript -
(wiki commons)

Do you remember where you were when a voice from the past first spoke comfortingly to you? Was it maybe even this poem?


Joan Lennon's website.

Joan Lennon's blog.

Walking Mountain.

The Book of Etiquette Sheena Wilkinson

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Another in my occasional series about odd little books from the past.


my 1962 edition 
I grew up in a Belfast council estate but I knew how to address a letter to royalty and what a Dowager was. I knew how to leave a calling card and that fashionable dinners were now served à la Russe. Should I ever be obliged to do so, I knew exactly how to organise the work of a household with three, two, or – heaven forfend, only one servant. I knew that any inconsiderate behaviour was ill-bred.

I bought it in a jumble sale, or a ‘wee sale’ as they were always called. I loved a wee sale. Once I had combed the room for Chalet School and Enid Blyton books I used to hang round until the end and buy – or have foisted on me – all sorts of unfortunate one-eyed, tailless, germ-ridden soft toys for whom I felt sorry. My mother must have been quite relieved to see me come home with a clean, if well-thumbed paperback, though she must have wondered at my liking something so old-fashioned.


The funny thing was, it wasn’t that old. The Book of Etiquette was originally published in 1926, in which year – that of the General Strike – it must have seemed almost as alien and a great deal less charming to many working people (not that they’d have been likely to read it) as it did to me in 1970s Belfast. My copy was not a 1920s original, nor an ironic reissue of the sort now popular but a cheap paperback reprint in the Cedar Special library, dated 1962. It’s hard to believe that in the year of the Cuban Missile Crisis and the first hits of The Beatles and Bob Dylan, people were still paying 7/6 to find out the Carriage rules at Court or, in the sad event of not having a carriage, How to behave in an omnibus.

This may not have been my day-to-day world, but it was one I recognised from my reading. When Harriet Vane marries Lord Peter and is addressed by as Lady Peter by a person of modest background, I thought, aha! That character has read her Book of Etiquette. 

an older edition 
When I was a teacher, my pupils used to be puzzled at Mrs Birling’s disapproval of her husband’s praising of the dinner in An Inspector Calls: surely he is only being polite! But no – As a general rule no comments should be made…on the food or the wine… Mr Birling is revealing a sad lack of breeding -- or reading. 

another older edition
The Book of Etiquettehas stayed with me through several house-moves and spring clear-outs, when other old friends have been abandoned. Now that I write historical fiction I tell myself it’s useful research, even though so far my characters have been much too lower-middle-class to worry about shooting etiquette or when to wear decorations with their evening dress.

Apparently The Book of Etiquette is so comprehensive a guide that it was used as research for the film Gosford Park. And actually, anyone today would benefit from reading the sections on how to behave at the theatre – in complete silence during the performance and on no account to rustle your programme. What my grandmother would have called the relics of oul' decency. 












The David Parr House….An update. by Adèle Geras

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[I'm grateful to the Trustees of the David Parr House for permission to use the photos shown in this post.  They are all  Copyright to the David Parr House.]







On a windy evening in March, I went to hear the latest about the progress of the restoration work at the David Parr House. The meeting was held at the Ross Street Community Centre in Cambridge, just round the corner from Gwydir Street, where David Parr and his family lived. The photograph above shows 'before and after' views of the exterior and they demonstrate very well how much has already been done. 


Readers of this blog may remember an earlier post http://the-history-girls.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=David+Parr+HouseI wrote on this blog.  I saw the house just before it was due to close for restoration and was struck by its beauty and the fascinating history that was preserved in it.

The David Parr House has been lucky. Elsie Palmer, David Parr’s granddaughter, moved in to keep her grandmother company after Parr’s death and lived there continuously till she left in 2012
. Her daughters, Rosemary and Ann, are still involved with the restoration work. To have a personal link of this kind, to have this sort of continuity in relation to the house is something very special. There’s an anecdote we heard about Rosemary, which told of how she’d trained her guinea pigs, harnessed to little carts, to follow her to the shops, and I added this amazing fact to many others this house contains.


The most astonishing thing, to me, is this: that a man who’d spent all day working for his employer, Frederick Leach, painting and decorating in many different locations should come home and spend his available leisure time painting all over again. I’m very grateful that he did, but it’s extraordinary when you stop to think about it. We are also lucky that he was someone who kept meticulous records, so that it’s easy to see every stage of this process. We also have many of tools he used for the work. 


Those in charge of the preservation and restoration are clearly cut from the same cloth as David Parr himself. One thing that became clear from both Tamsin Wimhurst’s and Jane Phillimore’s presentations was the enormous care and diligence that was involved in packing up every single thing in the house and labelling it and putting it away for later unpacking. 






[The two photographs above show the dining room cupboard (upper photo) and the cupboard replastered]

The second thing that struck me, as Jane showed us slides with fascinating recipes (some involving goats' hair) for the right kind of plaster and details of the paint colours and so forth, was that the Trustees have been employing workmen with whom David Parr would have been quite comfortable: proper master craftsmen in their fields who understand that this house needs the most tender care if it’s to continue to provide interest and pleasure to future visitors.



[recipe for mortar mix above]

This was a talk about the Dirty Phase of the process of preservation: repointing the brickwork, stripping damaged wallpaper, making sure that the plaster was right, matching paint colours as closely as possible to the originals, and dealing with every kind of problem in many ingenious ways. 




[the kitchen as it was above]

[the kitchen replastered and painted]


We owe everyone involved an enormous debt of gratitude and when the David Parr House opens again, the work of those who’ve overseen the restoration along with the present-day painters and decorators and plumbers and carpenters will be there for all to see alongside David Parr’s own amazing paintings.


I can’t wait for that day, but till it comes, such enjoyable and informative talks as the ones we had in Ross Street the other night are a good way of keeping up with the progress on the David Parr House.  And the website is a very good one and will provide a great deal of additional information for anyone who'd like it. 






'The (Roma) Boy Who Lived' by Karen Maitland

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Rounding up of Roma in Occupied Yugoslavia 
Between 1941-1944
Two of my medieval thrillers feature dwarfs as main characters. One is a natural-born dwarf sold by their family into a brothel, the other was artificially made into a dwarf as a baby so that he could be sold as a jester. Perhaps, that is why I was so moved when I came across the true story of a child who survived the holocaust by pretending to be a dwarf. The child in question was a Romani and today, 8th April, is International Romani or Roma Day, when our thoughts focus on the Sinti and Roma who perished in the Holocaust.

It is difficult to determine exactly how many European Roma were murdered between 1939 and 1945. Estimates range from 220,000 to 500,000. Proportionately, they suffered greater losses than any other group of victims except the Jews. The Sinti and Roma did not match the racial ideal of Aryan appearance and their itinerant lifestyle was considered ‘asocial,’ even ‘criminal.’ Ironically, pure-blood Roma were thought to be harmless by the Nazis, but the majority of the Roma community were believed to be of mixed race and therefore ‘degenerate’ and ‘dangerous.’ The Nuremberg Laws of 1935 aimed at the Jews were soon amended to include them.

Memorial to Sinti and Roma in Nuremberg near where,
on 15th Sept 1935, the Nuremberg Laws were adopted.
Photo: Aarp65
July 1942. Serbs and Roma being marched to Kozara and
Jasenova concentration camps.
As early as 1936, Roma were beginning to be sent to labour camps on the grounds of antisocial behaviour or ‘criminal tendencies’. After 1939, 30,000 Roma from Germany and from the German-occupied territories were sent to the Jewish ghettos in Poland including Warsaw and Lublin, where many perished within months from hunger, cold and sickness. Those married to Germans were exempt, but were sterilized, as were their children.

On 16th December, 1942, Himmler issued an order that all Roma were to be rounded-up and taken to the concentration camps. There were exemptions – those who could prove they had ‘pure gypsy blood’ dating from ancient times; those of Roma descent who had integrated into German society and did not ‘behave like gypsies,’ and the families of those who had served with distinction in the German armed forces. But in practise, local authorities often ignored these niceties during their raids. The police even deported Roma soldiers who were on active service in the German military, when they came home on leave.

Around 23,000 Roma from Germany and some parts of occupied Europe were sent to Auschwitz-Birkenau, where a special Roma ‘Family Camp’ was built. In Poland, many of those not sent to Auschwitz were shot by the local police, including nearly 1,000 in the Krakow district alone. Others from occupied Europe were dispatched to other camps including Bergen-Belsen, Dachau, Ravensbrück and Treblinka.

Nazi doctors experimented on some Roma women, particularly when trying out barbaric methods of sterilization. And as he did with the Jews, the infamous Mengele selected Roma twins and dwarfs for his human experiments, including amputation of healthy limbs.

Monument to the memory of the Roma who were murdered
erected on the site of Nazi crimes, Borzencin Village, Poland.
Photographer: Zygmunt Put
In May 1944, the SS guards surrounded and sealed off the Roma ‘Family Camp’ at Auschwitz intending to liquidate all inside. But the Roma had been warned and had armed themselves with tools and iron pipes and refuse to walk out to their deaths. The SS withdrew. Over the next few months, around 3,000 Roma deemed fit for work were sent to Auschwitz I and to the German factories as slave labour, leaving the sick, the elderly and children in the family camp. Then in August, the SS rounded up the remaining 2,898 inmates. Most were murdered in the gas chambers of Birkenau. Then they systematically hunted down the children who had hidden during the operation and slaughtered them. It is estimated that around 19,000 of the 23,000 Roma sent to Auschwitz died in that camp either from disease, starvation or deliberate murder.

It was only in 1979 that the West German Federal Parliament recognised the Nazi persecution of Roma as ‘racial’, which allowed survivors to apply for compensation, but by then many had already died.

The larger the number, the harder it is to comprehend the full scale of the human misery involved in events like this, but in the end it is not so much the numbers that matter as much as the knowledge that each person who suffered and died was an individual human being who loved and was loved.
1941. Serbian Roma being taken to their executions. 

One such, was a little boy called Karl Stojka who was born in 1933 to Lowara Roma parents in eastern Austria. Little Karl had five siblings and spent his summers travelling in their caravan, as his family worked as horse-traders. But in March 1938, just before Karl’s 7th birthday, they were camped on their usual winter-site in Vienna when Germany annexed Austria. They were told they could not move on. Karl’s parents were forced to convert their caravan into a static wooden house, which the children found hard to cope with, unused to being caged within permanent walls. Karl’s father and oldest sister were recruited to work in a factory, and the children were sent to school.

Arriving at Auschwitz II - Birkenau Camp
Photographer: Lubomir Rosenstein
 
But if Karl felt trapped by walls, it was nothing compared to the barbed wire, guards and search lights he was about to face, for by 1943, the family had been deported to Birkenau camp. Having witnessed the death of thousands of fellow Roma, Karl, still only 10 years old, was one of 918 transported to Buchenwald as slave labour. But on arrival they went through another selection process, and the officers pulled out 200 deemed incapable of working, who were to be returned to Birkenau to be gassed. Karl was one of those chosen to be sent back to his death, because the officer thought him too young to be of any use. But his brother and uncle insisted that he was 14 years and just appeared short because he was a dwarf. That was quite a gamble as dwarfs were often used for barbaric experimentation, but he was kept as a worker.

Karl was eventually moved to Flossenbürg concentration camp, before finally being freed by American troops on 24th April, 1945.

More details of Karl’s young life can be found in 'The Story of Karl Stojka: A Childhood in Birkenau' (Washington, D.C., 1992), published by the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum




























Classics Beyond Academia 2018

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by Caroline Lawrence

(This is the draft of a speech I delivered at the Classical Association Conference in Leicester #CA2018 on the evening of Sunday 8 April 2018)


As an author of over thirty historical fiction books for children aged 8 to 14, I’ve been asked to talk briefly about the current state of Classics Beyond Academia. This suits me perfectly because although my books are grounded in scholarly research, I also get lots of inspiration from non-academic sources like movies, museums and travel. 

The past twelve months have been packed with non-academic Classics-themed goodies, but because I have been asked to be brief I will have to resort to praeteritio, the rhetorical trope of mentioning something by pretending not to mention it. 


So I will not examine the fun TV shows we’ve been treated to this past year: Plebs (Romans in cardigans), Bromans (Romans in gold speedos), Britannia (Romans on LSD) and Troy: Fall of a City, the grimmest and most ethnically diverse Greeks you’ve ever seen. Whether you love them or love to hate them, they always get you thinking and sometimes inspire revelations about the ancient past. 

I will not talk about a strange new movement to depict Classical places and academics using Lego bricks and figurines. I have no idea what that’s all about.* But if it inspires young people, I'm all for it. 


How could I do justice to Laura Jenkinson’s fun Greek Myths Comix, including her Odyssey colouring book, Greek Gods playing cards and chart of Iliad death statistics?

Nor will I discuss the tenth instalment of the mega-popular Assassins Creed video game – Assassins Creed Origins– which is set in Ptolemaic Egypt and features jaw-dropping visuals. (Thanks to Philip Boyes for bringing that to my attention.) 


I couldn’t possibly single out particular titles in historical fiction like Natalie Haynes’ The Children of Jocasta for adults, Emily Hauser’s YA For the Most Beautiful or Maz Evans Who Let the Gods Out series for children or my pal Saviour Pirotta's spanking new Pirates of Poseidon. And it would be unseemly to plug my own The Roman Questsa four-book mini-series set in Roman Britain during the bloody final years of the Emperor Domitian.

Instead, I would like to bring your attention to a few interactive instances of Classics Beyond Academia that will get you out of the house. They require a bit of effort, but in my opinion are well worth it. 


Spartacus in Provence - Every April thousands of re-enactors converge on Nîmes in the south of France, not far from the Pont du Gard. There they stage Les Grands Jeux Romains, an impressive Roman-style spectacle in the ancient amphitheatre. I was privileged to attend two years ago. Following the mock sacrifice of a real goat, Egyptian acrobats, chariot stunts and gladiator displays I watched Cleopatra and Mark Antony confront Octavian in a recreated battle of Actium. It was fabulous. Last year the theme was Boudica. This year the show is called Spartacus. It will take place on the last weekend of this month, April 28, 29 and 30. You still have time to book your plane tickets. 


InteractiveJulius Caesar– You have until April 15th to catch a superb production of Shakespeares Julius Caesar at The Bridge Theatre in London. You can either sit in the round, as if you were in an arena, or stand on the same level as the actors, and become part of the Roman mob. If you’re lucky you might get jostled by David Morrissey as Marc Antony or spat on by Ben Wishaw as Brutus. Tomorrow (Monday 9 April) they are throwing a Roman Banquet down in the pit, featuring blood cake, goat curds, quail and pomegranate. (Obviously the play is not being staged tomorrow evening.)


The Classical Now–  is an exhibition sponsored by Kings College London which juxtaposes Greek and Roman masterpieces with 20th and 21st century art. Although it’s confusingly split between two sites on the Strand it is worth seeking out. Many of the artefacts are from the superb Musee d’Art Classique in Mougins a museum near Cannes in a beautiful village where Picasso spent his last years. (Maybe you could combine your trip to Nîmes with a visit to Mougins.) The Classical Now finishes at the end of April, passing the baton to another juxtaposition of art when the British Museum opens its new exhibition Rodin and the art of ancient Greece (April 26th and running to the end of July). This idea of getting inspiration from Classical Art was the theme of Artefact to Art, Leicester Universitys competition to write a poem or create a piece of art based on a Classical artefact. It inspired some fabulous pieces by children and adults. I was privileged to give the prizes yesterday afternoon. 

Living Latin– Of course you know there is a movement to bring conversational Latin into schools and universities. But did you know there is a podcast called Quomodo Dicitur where scholars chat about current events and topics in Latin. There is even the Circulus Latinus, the Latin Circle, which meets at a wine bar near the British Museum for dinner one Tuesday a month. The only rule is you have to speak in Latin. But maybe that’s too academic... 

So Ill finish with my favourite non-academic source of inspiration this year. 


London Mithraeum– You probably know that London’s Mithraeum recently re-opened in the basement of Bloomberg’s new European headquarters, in the exact position it occupied in Roman London. There are three levels: the entry, the mezzanine and the Mithraeum. In the street level you can see hundreds of beautifully displayed artefacts all found in the nearby Walbrook, including over a hundred wooden writing tablets and labels, many naming ancient Londoners and one of them featuring the earliest mention of Londinium itself. The mezzanine features a brief touchy-feely explanation of Mithras. When you finally descend to the Mithraeum itself you are treated to an immersive experience, featuring the smells, bells and Latin liturgy of an imagined Mithraic ceremony. It’s free to visit and only requires booking.

So go out and enjoy. 
Fly to Nîmes
Become a member of the Roman mob.
Eavesdrop on the Mysteries of Mithras. 
Compare Rodin and Pheidias. 
These activities will refresh and inspire the parts that academic research will never reach. And rejoice that Classics Beyond Academia has never been healthier.

*After my speech, a table of Australian scholars enlightened me about the Classical Lego movement. According to Kathryn Welch, (chair of Classics at the University of Sydney), the (then) senior curator of the Nicholson Museum wanted to get every kid in Sydney to come to the museum. So Michael Turner built a Lego Colosseum and sure enough, there was a 'congo line of kids, and their fathers and mothers, going through the museum.’ The Colosseum went on tour so he replaced it with a Lego Acropolis, which then went to live in the Acropolis Museum in Athens. Currently on display is a Lego Pompeii, complete with Lego Mary Beard. 

Pale hands I loved beside the Sagredo – Michelle Lovric

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My title messes with ‘Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar’, the celebrated first line of ‘Kashmiri Song’, a poem by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Nicholson) published in her collection The Garden of Kama, 1901. As a special treat, here is Rudolph Valentino vamping his way through the song adaptation written by Amy Woodforde-Finden in 1902. Apparently, it was his favourite.

No wonder Sheikish Rudolf loved this poem. It’s as sexy as hell, with a nice little throb of sadomasochism in the final lines.

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,
Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?
Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway, far,
Before you agonise them in farewell?

Oh, pale dispensers of my Joys and Pains,
Holding the doors of Heaven and of Hell,
How the hot blood rushed wildly through the veins,
Beneath your touch, until you waved farewell.


Pale hands, pink tipped, like Lotus buds that float
On those cool waters where we used to dwell,
I would have rather felt you round my throat,
Crushing out life, than waving me farewell!


The pale hands pictured above are to be found beside Ca’ Sagredo on the Grand Canal in Venice. The installation is called ‘Support’. Pink tipped and like lotus buds they may be, but these hands are on a vast scale.

Before I noticed the title ‘Support’, my reaction to the hands varied according to my state of mind whenever I saw it. Sometimes they seem benign; other times sinister and grasping. They’re close to my home and I pass them at least twice a day, witnessing the way they transform by dawn and evening light, and in the dark. I have discussed them with friends and with strangers on the vaporetto. Once, when I was hungry, I imagined some monstrously greedy Hansel had decided that Ca’ Sagredo was built of tear-and-share gingerbread, and he was reaching out to snap off a corner for a snack. Another time, when I was worrying about a sick friend, the hands conjured those of an expert but tender nurse reaching out to re-set a broken bone. One fiery sunset, they seemed to cup the flames of hell. At night, they are always ghost hands, questing after souls to drag into the black water. And of course, whenever I see them, the ear-worm wriggles in my head, chanting, ‘Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar …’

Projecting one’s feelings on modern art is very enjoyable. But I find I’m usually wrong and this case is no exception. In fact, the artist, Lorenzo Quinn intended this piece as a statement on the effects of global warning. The future of the planet is in our hands. Our hands can destroy or save the planet. Our power is out of proportion with nature, and with the nature of what we have created. Quinn wanted the piece to be juxtaposed against the waterline of Venice, where global warming poses a visible and immediate threat with each high water.

According the Halcyon Gallery, which represents Quinn, ‘At once, the sculpture has both a noble air as well as an alarming one – the gesture being both gallant in appearing to hold up the building whilst also creating a sense of fear in highlighting the fragility of the building surrounded by water and the ebbing tide.’

Quinn has said, ‘I wanted to sculpt what is considered the hardest and most technically challenging part of the human body. The hand holds so much power – the power to love, to hate, to create, to destroy.’

 So in fact, the threats barely veiled in the poem do have some resonance here. Nor was I so far out with my idea of Hansel as these are supposed to be gigantic child hands, modelled on those of the artist’s son. The boy’s mother and grandmother are Venetian: Quinn identifies warmly with the city.

Quinn fashioned the hands from polyurethane foam coated with resin, using an ancient technique known as ‘lost-wax casting’. I so wish I’d been there to see the day they were installed. Fortunately, this lovely film records the event.

The 30-foot hands first surged out of the water in May 2017, originally part of the Biennale of Art. They have captured the imagination of the city and been allowed to stay on beyond the Biennale’s closing last November. In an interview with the Telegraph last year, Quinn explained, ‘There’s a saying in Italian: “Non metter le mani sulla città” (Don’t put your hands on the city), and I went and did it. But they love it!

After a year on the water, I’ve noticed some endearingly human signs of aging: a hairline crack near one knuckle and some discolouration that could be bruising. They are, in fact, growing old the way a Venetian palazzo grows old.

Nearly everyone I know in Venice will be sad when the hands finally leave. But they still have environmental crusading to do. Their next destination will also point accusing fingers at the human authors of climate change. Lorenzo Quinn plans to install them on an Arctic glacier. He will shoot a time-lapse video as the ice melts. As he told the Telegraph, ‘In a few months they’ll be gripping thin air and people will see this is real, this is happening.

 Lorenzo Quinn is represented by the Halcyon Gallery
Michelle Lovric’s website

Manuscript Mania: How Sir Thomas Phillipps built the world’s greatest collection of medieval manuscripts

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Boccaccio, De mulieribus claris (c. 1450-70, France)
Phillipps MS 2862
Sir Thomas Phillipps (1792-1872) was probably the world's most prolific collector of books, artefacts, paintings, and especially rare manuscripts, of all ages, countries, languages, and subjects. In his lifetime he acquired some 40,000 printed books and 60,000 manuscripts - buying at a rate of forty to fifty items per week - and his was arguably the largest collection a single individual has ever created.

Phillipps was a true bibliophile, writing in 1869 (presumably in jest):
 ''I am buying books because I wish to have one copy of every book in the world.''

But he was also stingy, a bully, a rabid anti-Catholic, a heavy-handed father, a ruthless hater and a maniacal collector who many timesalmost bankrupted his family in his quest to save manuscripts from destruction at the hands of those who saw no use for the old vellum. 

Born the illegitimate son of a wealthy bachelor textile manufacturer and his housekeeper (or some say, a barmaid), the baby Thomas was formally adopted by his father, who had him educated at Rugby and University College, Oxford. Thomas's love for literature was obvious at a young age and was encouraged by his doting father. 

When a very young child he began spending all his pocket money on buying books, which he kept, carefully arranged, in his bedroom. This predilection for buying old books and manuscripts increased when he was at Rugby and became somewhat of an obsession at Oxford.

Upon his father's death in 1819 he inherited a substantial estate and a country home, Middle Hill, in Worcestershire.

Middle Hill House Photo © Michael Dibb (cc-by-sa/2.0)

In 1819 he married Henrietta Elizabeth Molyneux, daughter of Major-General Thomas Molyneux, and they had three daughters. Phillipps's father had not wished him to marry Elizabeth, as she did not have a dowry, and there is some doubt that their marriage was a happy one. Phillipps memorabilia includes an imaginary map done in watercolour by Elizabeth demarcating ''The Shore of Courtship'' as a treacherous marsh. 

But it was through his father-in-law's connections that Phillipps was created a baronet on 27 July 1821. His biographer, A.N.L. Munby, stated with regard to the baronetcy: ''Thereafter no holder of a centuries-old title could have been more insistent of the dignity of his rank.'' 
In 1825 Phillipps was also appointed high sheriff for Worcestershire.

His love of books and manuscripts was very real, and he was a scholar as well as a collector. He was a trustee of the British Museum,  a fellow of the Royal Society in 1819, and became a fellow of many learned societies in Britain and abroad.

He spent almost his entire inheritance on manuscripts, books, antiquities and paintings, buying in a haphazard fashion.  

Scriptores Historiae Augustae (c. 1479, Florence)
 State Library of Victoria Phillipps MS 2163
 
"In amassing my collection of manuscripts, I commenced with purchasing everything that lay within my reach, to which I was instigated by reading various accounts of the destruction of valuable manuscripts. I had not the ability to select, nor the resolution to let anything escape because it was of trifling value. … 
My principal search has been for historical, and particularly unpublished, manuscripts, whether good or bad, and more particularly those on vellum. My chief desire for preserving vellum manuscripts arose from witnessing the unceasing destruction of them by goldbeaters; my search for charters or deeds by their destruction in the shops of glue-makers and tailors." (Phillipps, Preface to My Catalogue of Manuscripts (c. 1828))

On many occasions he seemed on the verge of ruin, but he never ceased collecting. When out of funds, he borrowed heavily to continue to buy. 

"As I advanced, the ardour of the pursuit increased, until at last I became a perfect vello-maniac (if I may coin a word), and I gave any price that was asked. Nor do I regret it, for my object was not only to secure good manuscripts for myself, but also to raise the public estimation of them, so that their value might be more generally known, and, consequently, more manuscripts preserved. For nothing tends to the preservation of anything so much as making it bear a high price."(Phillipps, Preface to My Catalogue of Manuscripts (c. 1828))

Phillipps would go into book shops and purchase all the shop's stock, or he would buy every item listed in a dealer's catalogue. He had agents throughout Europe who would buy entire lots of books at auction, sometimes outbidding the British Museum. 
His ability to collect in such numbers was assisted by the selling up of the contents of the monastic libraries after the French Revolution, and also by the relative cheapness of vellum material, such as English legal documents. Phillipps saw the value in old records thrown out by government departments and waste paper that otherwise would have been pulped.
Phillipps was ruthless with booksellers, arguing about their charges, refusing to pay their bills, refusing to return books. He sent several into bankruptcy. 
At the age of thirty he fled abroad to avoid creditors, and found Europe in turmoil after the Napoleonic Wars. Manuscripts were freely available. Ignoring his debts he continued to increase his collection.
The Phillipps collection was truly eclectic, ranging from beautiful illuminated manuscripts which now enrich some of the world’s most exclusive collections to heaps of miscellaneous scraps of documents.
This is a re-creation of Phillipps’ shelves, now in the Grolier Club, New York

Phillipps pressed his wife, three daughters and their governess into the onerous task of listing his manuscripts and copying out those of particular interest to be published by him privately. They were forced to do do while living in a house that was almost uninhabitable due Phillipps's refusal to spend money on anything but his collection. 
His long-suffering wife lived surrounded by boxes of manuscripts (the walls of her bedroom were so thickly lined with boxes that there was only a few feet of space for her dressing table); she became despondent, took to drugs and died at the age of 37.

Phillipps needed a rich second wife, and claimed that he was "for sale for £50,000", but he ended up with the amiable daughter of a clergyman who had a mere £3,000 per annum. It was a happy marriage nevertheless, until in his old age Phillipps became too eccentric even for her. 
Throughout his life Phillipps had a virulent hatred of Roman Catholicism and its practitioners. In 1826 he unsuccessfully contested the parliamentary representation of Grimsby on an anti-Catholic platform, and he was horrified by the Roman Catholic Relief Act 1829, the culmination of the process of Catholic Emancipation throughout the UK.
What Phillipps feared was a Catholic coup in England. He was convinced that Jesuits were meddling with his mail:

"Your copy of the ‘Indication’...did not arrive this morning... Ought I not to have had it this morning? If I ought, then there has been foul play at the Jesuit Post Office here. Did you fasten it, so that it could not be taken out of the Envelope without violence? If you did not, it has probably taken a walk to the Jesuit Monastery here, for the edification of the FATHERS!!! You are not aware perhaps that this Post Office employs a Papist Boy to deliver Letters."(Letter Phillipps to Charles Bird of the Protestant Alliance 22 May 1863)

In furtherance of this hatred, Phillipps reported that he was “delighted to discover in his library and publish to the world evidence of unchaste practices in nunneries or the more curious details of Papal elections.”
Broadway Tower (author photo)

Phillipps was able to publish such tracts by establishing in 1822 his own printing press, the Middle Hill Press. The press was housed in Broadway Tower, a folly built on Broadway Hill, Worcestershire, in 1798. 
In contrast with the high quality of his library, his publishing endeavours tended to be poorly produced and haphazardly distributed (if at all). He rushed into print and forgot about careful editing, accurate information or good paper. He and his printers would argue about hours, expenses and wages. To save money he often used children such as Sarah Halford, a 13-year-old neighbour, as typesetters.

Middle Hill Press publications included books on local history and genealogy, rabidly anti-Catholic tracts, attacks on his son-in-law, but especially lists and catalogues of his own library and those of his book-collecting friends.

His temper and utter vindictiveness is evident in the story of how he treated his eldest daughter, Harriet, when she married James Orchard Halliwell against his wishes. 

Halliwell had collaborated in research with Phillipps when still an undergraduate at Cambridge, and Phillipps invited him to Middle Hill for a visit in February 1842. 

A romance developed between Harriet and the young man. Although Harriet had spent many hours of her life correcting proofs and copying letters for her father, her entreaties to be allowed to marry Halliwell were in vain. Phillipps refused to countenance the match. 

The couple eloped, and Phillipps was enraged. He disowned Harriet and maintained a lifelong vendetta against her and her husband.

Phillipp's resentment at the elopement was exacerbated because an entail on the Middle Hill property secured it to Harriet after her father's death, so long as her husband took the name of Phillipps in addition to his own. 

That meant his hated son-in-law would bear the name of Phillipps and live in Middle Hill! Phillipps found it insufferable. He tried to break the entail, but failed.

Halliwell was later to be a distinguished Shakespearean scholar, but there was some concern as to his integrity and Phillipps became convinced that Halliwell had stolen some valuable books from the library of Trinity College, Cambridge. Phillipps exploited this to the utmost, making accusation after accusation against his son-in-law, calling him a thief and liar who "persuaded his wife to play the whore and run away from her home."

Harriet attempted on many occasions to amend the breach between them, but Phillipps was obdurate. This is an example of a reply to Harriet from her father:

"It appears that you have no power now Harriet to effect a reconciliation between us. The consequence will be that you will fall under the Curse destined for all disobedient Children ‘unto the 2nd & 3rd generation’. I understand the Curse had already commenced by your eldest Daughter being half-witted, & your second is afflicted with a Spinal Complaint. Your husband seems determined that the third shall also incur some misfortune by refusing to make me the Compensation which I understand he once promised.

In such case neither you nor he can expect any blessing of
Thos Phillipps" [1867]

To keep his collection and printing press out of the hands of Harriet and her husband, Phillipps decided to move from Middle Hill. He bought Thirlestaine House in Cheltenham from the estate of Lord Northam, who had housed his extensive art collection there. (The building is now part of the exclusive private school, Cheltenham College, which bought it from Thomas's descendants in 1949.)

 Detail from Thirlstaine House (author's photo)

At least 105 wagon-loads, each drawn by two horses and accompanied by one or two men, were used to move Thomas's collection and printing press to Thirlestaine House over a period of 8 months.

In sheer malice Phillipps then ignored his legal obligations as a life-tenant to hand on to his daughter a family property in good order. He cut down the timber on the property and sold it, and left the building to rot. Over the years thieves broke into the empty house, stole lead from the roof and fittings from the house. When Harriet inherited Middle Hill, it was a wreck. 

Phillipps well knew the importance of his collection. Between 1828 and 1861 he negotiated with Oxford University, offering it to the university on the basis that it be kept together, housed at the Ashmolean and that he be appointed the Bodleian Librarian. Not unsurprisingly, the negotiations failed.

He corresponded with the then Chancellor of the Exchequor, Benjamin Disraeli in 1862, hoping that it would be acquired for the British Museum. Frederick Madden, Keeper of Manuscripts at the British Museum wrote in his journal: “Whatever may become of his vast collection of MSS, I trust they will not in my time come to the Museum, - at all events, if Sir T.P. is alive, to interfere with the arrangement and cataloguing.

Phillips died at Thirlestaine House on 6 Feb. 1872, and was buried at the old church, Broadway, Worcestershire.

He left his collection to his youngest daughter, and in his will stipulated that his books should remain intact at Thirlestaine House, that no bookseller or stranger should rearrange them and that his son-in-law James Halliwell and no Roman Catholic would ever to be permitted to view them.
Thomas Fenwick

But the enormous collection was too difficult to for his heirs to maintain. In 1885, the Court of Chancery broke the trust created by his will and the collection was sold by his grandson Thomas Fitzroy Fenwick (d.1938) over the next fifty years. Fenwick reorganised and renumbered the collection and his estimate was close to 60,000 manuscripts (volumes and individual documents), 50,000 books and as many prints, photographs, drawings and paintings. It was sold off in bits and pieces between 1886 and the 1940s, but the final dispersal took over 100 years. 

Much of the European material was sold to national collections such as the Royal Library in Berlin, the Royal Library of Belgium and the Provincial Archives in Utrecht. Magnificent individual items ended up n the USA at the Morgan Library and Museum in New York and the Huntington Library in California. But Phillipps manuscripts have ended up all over the world. 

Phillipps undoubtedly saved many manuscripts that otherwise would have been lost. The Spanish documents referred to in the letter transcribed below are probably Phillipps MS 25342, a collection of documents from the Medina Sidonia archives. One of them contains the signed orders of Philip II of Spain, sending the Armada against England. It is now in the National Maritime Museum at Greenwich, but without Phillipps it would have ended up wrapped around someone's groceries:

"More MSS. are destroyed by ignorant people, than by civil wars – I once found a bookseller at Madrid occupied in taking off the parchment covers from a large pile of old folios and throwing them inside into his cellar to sell by weight to the grocers: I opened one, and immediately bought the whole (120 volumes) at about 2s. per vol: you will hardly believe that among them was one of the most precious volumes in your collection; a volume of original documents relating to England in the time of Philip the second! – But it is not in Spain alone that these things occur, for I bought in London the original papers and correspondence of Govr Bernard, Govr of Massachusetts at the commencement of the American War; which had already been sold for waste paper: and partly used as such!"
Bookseller Obadiah Rich to Phillipps, 1843


How much did the collection cost?

Total cost

•£200,000 – £250,000 (Munby’s estimate)

•Phillips's spent an average £4,000 – £5,000 a year for fifty years

•Phillipps’s annual income was about £6,000

•Most expensive single item: £590 in 1857

What are these figures worth today?

•£149,000,000 – £186,250,000

•£2,980,000 – £3,725,000 p.a.

•£4,470,000 p.a.

•£375,000

Converted using “Average Earnings” method:
Lawrence H. Officer, "Five Ways to Compute the Relative Value of a UK Pound Amount, 1830 to Present," MeasuringWorth, 2011 URL: www.measuringworth.com/ukcompare/





The atomic weight of doubt

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Some years ago, I was the unlikely editor of a Science magazine. I commissioned Bill Bryson to write about the search for the Higgs Boson particle, and I tagged along with him on his research trip to the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) at CERN.


It was extraordinary. I remember most the scale of the place. A cathedral to Physics, with columns of steel and copper, buttressed by webs of wire and cables. The physicists, cycling though collaboration and rivalries, settled in hierarchies that were impenetrable to this lay observer.


A temple to the atom, then. And to man’s desire to understand the two great mysteries of existence – the infinitely large and the infinitesimally small.


A modern cathedral

I have been thinking about this a lot recently because the technology might be extraordinarily modern, but the pre-occupations are not new. In researching my new book, set in Ancient Rome, I have been reading a fair amount of Roman philosophy. One argument between the Epicureans and the Stoics recalls that temple to the atom – as it concerns the nature of the universe, and the role of atoms within it.


The word atom means ‘uncuttable’, and it was coined by the pre-Socratic philosophers Democritus and his master Leucippus in the 5thcentury BC. Everything, they argued, is composed of invisible tiny particles. This atomic view of the world was seized upon by Epicurus, the father of the Epicurean school of philosophy.


The great Epicurean poem by Lucretius, The Nature of Things, explains the Epicurean position. These atoms create all things without a governing deity. There is no over-arching plan – no design. The atoms are in perpetual motion, and they bump and swerve in a perpetual cycle of destructive creationism. “If they were not in the habit of swerving they would all fall straight down through the depths of the void, like drops of rain, and no collisions would occur, nor would any blows be produced among the atoms. In that case, nature would never have produced anything.”


The Stoics reject this notion. For them, the existence of beauty, harmony and perfection in nature must argue for a creator deity. The universe makes no sense without a directing Mind. The Epicureans do not deny the existence of Gods; rather they deny that the Gods created the world. Epicurus claimed that the Gods resembled men. The Stoics have a grander, vaguer sense of a giant, designing mind behind the intricacies of the universe. Men resemble God, rather than the other way round. The primitive substance of the universe is a divine essence known as pneuma. This pneuma is part of the reason of the creator God. The human soul comes from this Divine Reason. In effect, the Stoics reach for the infinite and the Epicureans for the infinitesimal.


As Cicero’s stoic mouthpiece says to his Epicurean friend in “The Nature of the Gods”: ‘When we Stoics say that the Universe both coheres and is altered by the work of nature, we do not regard it as being like a clod of earth or a pebble, or something of that kind that lacks organic unity, but rather to be like a tree or a living creature which does not present a haphazard appearance but bears clever evidence of order and similarity to Human design.”


To paraphrase, Lucretius and Cicero, very, very baldly – here are two schools. In the Red corner: the universe as accident. Colliding atoms, random chance, humanity as an unexpected consequence of a constantly moving and changing natural phenomenon. In the Blue corner: the beautiful, harmonious universe as the brainchild of an unknowable, unreachable Mind.


Does this argument seem familiar? Creationism versus evolution anyone?



Cicero: waiting for God


The Romans and Greeks had no physical ability to prove or disprove the nature of the building blocks of the universe. No multi-billion pound collider to smash matter smaller and smaller. Is it significant that they reached for giant and tiny, just as we do with all our technological bravura?


One thing that reading philosophy has taught me is that my mind is very tiny. The one thing that my flirtation with particle physics taught me is that my mind is also entirely ill-equipped to understand the universe. In particle physics, things can exist and not exist at the same time. Time itself is not necessarily linear. Our experience of the lived universe is utterly at odds with its inner logic (or, as processed through the human experience, lack of logic).


Standing in that secular cathedral, next to Bill Bryson, I did not know that 2500 years ago, philosophers were wrangling with all that the LHC sought to explain. We think we are so clever, do we not, each generation? Cleverer than the one before. Yet the older I get, and the more I read, the more I lose faith. The nature of the universe – the prize sought at CERN, and in the Stoa and the Academy, - is like the silver path thrown by the moon on black water. The closer we think we’re getting, the faster it retreats.


Perhaps, when they interpret all the data from all the experiments they carry out at CERN, they will find pneuma after all. It was only in the nineteenth century that chemists rediscovered the Democritus’ atomic theories and used them to explain the results of their experiments into matter.


Who knows, maybe someone is watching. The Epicureans believe that human souls have an atomic weight, and that after death the atoms disperse into the void, to collide afresh elsewhere. This sounds more likely to me, but, as I’ve said, I fully accept that this is an article of faith, encircling a kernel of ignorance. The Stoics tend more to a belief in an intact soul. At some point, the natural universe will dissolve into a sort of divine fire – everything will lose its physical incorporation to become one soul.


So perhaps, if the stoics are right, the souls of Zeno and Epicurus, Lucretius and Cicero are watching – locked in a perpetual, ethereal battle about the nature of Things. Waiting for the divine fire to end the universe and our speculation about it. There is one certain “uncuttable” element in all this: as long as man exists, and the universe exits, one will speculate about the unknowable other. Oh, and Bill Bryson is as lovely in person as he is on the page. Which was a relief.


Destruction and Restitution - The Crown Jewels

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‘I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown…’ 
Charles I before his execution in 1649.

Anyone visiting the Tower Of London to see the magnificent display of the Crown Jewels of England would never believe that they were once broken up and melted down. Yet after the execution of Charles I, they were destroyed because nobody thought there would ever be a monarchy again; that England would from now on be under the control of Cromwell's Protectorate.

Less than a week after the King's execution in 1649, the Rump Parliament voted to abolish the monarchy. The crown jewels were "symbolic of the detestable rule of kings"and "monuments of superstition and idolatry", so the vote was taken to sell them off. It was also a precaution against future rebellions or any future uprising of 'royalty.'

The most valuable object of them all to be lost was Henry VIII's Crown, worth then £1,100. Only two crowns survived - the crown of Margaret of York and the Crown of Princess Blanche, because they were used by the women for their weddings in Europe and had thus been taken out of England before the Civil War. Looking at the picture below, we can only imagine what it must have felt like to lay hands on such treasure.
The Crown of Princess Blanche
The Knave of Diamonds
The task of disposing of it all fell to Sir Henry Mildmay. Clarendon calls him  a "great flatterer of all persons in authority, and a spy in all places for them", which is hardly a recommendation! I have an interest in him because he was knighted at Kendal in Westmorland, which is my nearest town, and I'm always interested in history from my locality. 

By all accounts Mildmay was intent upon the good life and was made Master of the King's Jewels in 1620 before the Civil War. Not only was this prestigious, but ensured him a seat on the Privy Council, and servants, carriages and good accommodation whenever he travelled. This position also proved to be very convenient when he later abandoned his Royalist ideology and sided with Parliament in the English Civil War.

Mildmay was a judge at the King's Trial, although he did not sign the actual death warrant, so was not officially a 'regicide.' On the 9th August 1649 he was ordered to destroy the Coronation Regalia, break up the jewels and melt down the gold. This act was very unpopular with the general public, leading the Earl of Pembroke to call him the 'Knave of Diamonds'. The coronation and state regalia were melted down, the gemstones removed, and the gold was re-used to make hundreds of coins and keep the fledgeling Protectorate economy afloat.

Restitution
After Cromwell's death, and the Restoration of Charles II as King, new jewels were needed for the coronation, and keen to preserve tradition, they were based on old records of the ones that were lost. These were re-fabricated by the Royal Goldsmith, Sir Robert Vyner, at a cost of £12,184 7s 2d – an ernormous sum, as much as the cost of building and furnishing three warships. Vyner outsourced the work, which had to be done in haste, to a number of craftsmen, most of whom remain unidentified. Charles II was short of money though, and Vyner had to petition him frequently to pay up. By 1673 Vyner pleaded that he was close to bankruptcy. Despite this, the new reproductions of the medieval originals made in 1660 and 1661, form the nucleus of the Crown Jewels today.

Picture from the Daily Mail
They include St Edward's Crown, with which the current Queen was crowned (see this article about how she was re-united with it after 65 years of reign) two sceptres, an orb, and other regalia. A few medieval objects such as a silver-gilt anointing spoon were returned to the Crown by loyal subjects.

Public Humiliation
On 1 July 1661 Henry Mildmay was brought to the bar of the House of Commons, and after he had been made to confess his guilt of his presence at Charles I's trial, and the subsequent destruction of the Royal Regalia, he was stripped of his honours and titles and consigned to the Tower for life. In a weird addendum to this, there was the further proviso; that every year, on the anniversary of the king's sentence (27th January), he was to be dragged on a sledge through the streets and under the gallows at Tyburn, with a noose round his neck, as a public humiliation, before being dragged back to the Tower.

In a petition he sent to the House of Lords, he alleged that he was present at the trial only to seek some opportunity of saving the king's life.
If you believe that, you'll believe anything!

In March 1664 a warrant was issued for Mildmay's transportation to Tangier, which is where he died.

Sources:
Regalia, Robbers and Royal Corpses - Geoffrey Abbott
Dictionary of National Biography
https://www.hrp.org.uk/tower-of-london/history-and-stories/the-crown-jewels/

Stuart England - Blair Worden

Find Deborah's books here or chat with her on Twitter @swiftstory

Japanese jugglers, acrobats and top spinners in Victorian London - by Lesley Downer

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Japanese acrobats at the Paris Expo 1867
When Phileas Fogg arrives in Japan, the first thing he does is to go to an ‘acrobatic performance’. There he sees the ‘butterfly trick’, where the performers make origami butterflies fly across the stage just by waving their fans. Another performer juggles lighted candles while one sends tops spinning along ‘pipe stems, sabres, wires and even hairs’ as if they have a life of their own. He watches ‘astonishing performances of acrobats and gymnasts turning on ladders, poles, balls, barrels, etc., all executed with wonderful precision.’ And he finally tracks down his lost servant, young Passepartout, underneath an entire human pyramid.

All of this makes perfect sense. In 1872, when Jules Verne was writing his Around the World in Eighty Days, westerners’ image of Japan was as a land of acrobats. Before the arrival of Japonisme the first Japanese to tickle westerners’ fancy were top-spinners, jugglers, acrobats and other performers and when westerners thought of Japanese they thought of acrobats.
'The Japanese at St Martin's Hall'

This year is the 250th anniversary of the birth of circus - in April 5th 1768, when Philip Astley opened his Amphitheatre in Surrey Road, London. To celebrate I’ve been looking into the jugglers, acrobats and other performers who were the first Japanese to arrive in Victorian Britain.

For 250 years Japan had been closed to the west and Japanese had been prohibited from leaving the country under pain of death. It was only in 1866 that the prohibition was lifted and the first ‘passports’ - actually ‘letters of request’ - were issued. The idea was to enable diplomats, government officials, merchants and students to travel abroad to help develop Japan and its economy. But entertainers were also eager to apply.
'Matsui Gensui Troop of Top Spinners' 1865

Among the very first was a legendary top-spinner called Matsui Gensui. He was 43 years old and had been wowing crowds with his amazing feats for decades in Edo (now Tokyo)’s East End, around the famous Asakusa Sensoji Temple. In the traditional way the illustrious name of Matsui Gensui was handed down through the generations. He was the thirteenth to bear it. 

On December 2 1866 the Gensui troupe - seven men, two women, two boys and a girl - set sail on the British steamer Nepaul. They landed in Southampton on February 2nd 1867. On February 11th they made their debut to a packed house at St Martin’s Hall, just behind the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden.

The arrival of the Japanese acrobats led to one of the first Japanese crazes of the nineteenth century. Audiences filled theatres to capacity and newspapers reported extensively on their performances and daily activities.
Hayatake Torakichi performs
the ladder trick

The Times reported that ‘a company of acrobats, conjurors and jugglers have established themselves at St. Martin’s-hall where, richly habited in their native costume, they go through a set of feats. ... The children are whirled around in huge humming tops. The others walk on the slack rope and do the famous butterfly trick.’ 

The Era reported on May 5 1867 that the tight rope walker, ‘Kosakichi, in common with the rest of the Japanese does not seem to know the meaning of the word nervousness. ... He carries an umbrella in one hand and a fan in the other and grasps the rope between the first and second toe, after the manner of monkeys in general. Kosakichi rests for a time and, sitting on the rope, smiles amiably at the public while he fans himself. He recovers his position without touching the rope, and never for a moment dispenses with the umbrella.’ Then, to the shock of the audience, the cord snapped, sending Kosakichi to the ground, where he landed gracefully and dexterously on his feet. 

The troupe also performed the ladder trick, in which a man lying on his back balanced a vertical ladder on his feet. The Brighton Gazette described it: ‘A child with the greatest ease ascends to the top of the upright ladder, where he stands upon his head and again upon his feet, and with an intrepid air and serene aspect clasps his hands, amidst the greatest applause; he then continues his journey along the horizontal ladder where again his flexible manoeuvres and gyrations, at a very lofty elevation, are as surprising as they are wonderful.’

Hayatake Torakichi spinning tops
The troupe went on to tour England and performed for the royal family at Windsor Castle. Then, on May 27 1867, they left from Liverpool for the Paris Exhibition. Here they took on the new and grand title of ‘The Tycoon’s Japanese Troupe’. They must have known they’d be crossing paths - and swords - with some old friends and rivals ­- the so called ‘Japan Imperial Artistes’ Company’, fresh from the newly United States.

In 1864, when westerners were allowed in to Japan but Japanese were not yet allowed to leave, the shogun’s government gave permission for the self-styled ‘Professor’ Richard Risley and his American circus troupe to perform in Yokohama. He arrived with ten artists and eight horses. Their performances were a sensation. Many Japanese balancing artistes, jugglers, contortionists, top spinners, and conjurers came to watch and to show off their own expertise.

Amazed at what he saw, Risley had the idea of taking Japanese-style acrobatics abroad. He assembled several groups of Japanese entertainers including Hamaikari Sadakichi’s troupe, who performed tricks with their feet, Sumidagawa Namigoro’s troupe of jugglers and conjurers and Matsui Kijujiro’s top-spinning specialists. Three days after Matsui and his troupe left for London, on 5 December 1866, they set sail for San Francisco. Under the name ‘The Japan Imperial Artistes’ Company’, they performed there for several months in early 1867, then went on to New York where they performed until July, when they left for Paris.
The tumbling tubs trick - Japanese Imperial Troupe in Paris

The most celebrated member of the company was a little boy called Hamaikari Nagakichi, the only child athlete to appear abroad. The first time he performed in San Francisco, he fell from the slack wire. The audience rose to their feet, gasping in horror. The boy picked himself up and shouted, ‘Little All Right,’ which became his nickname thereafter. He was hugely popular.

The greatest acrobat of all was Hayatake Torakichi, celebrated as the last superstar ringmaster of the Edo period. He was based in Osaka but thrilled crowds across the country. Torakichi’s specialty was an act called kyokuzashi, in which he balanced long bamboo poles on his shoulders or feet while other members of the troupe performed juggling tricks or quick-change acts on top. He too was lured to San Francisco and performed there in 1867.
Frog acrobats by
Kawanabe Kyosai

Jostling for public acclaim, all these different troupe members unexpectedly found themselves in each other’s company. In New York it transpired that Hamaikari Sadakichi, the popular young leader of one of the three troupes in The Japan Imperial Artistes’ Company, had had a secret love affair with a lady shamisen player named Tou, who was part of the Sumidagawa group, another of the three. She found herself pregnant and eventually had her baby in London. The Times reported that this was the first Japanese ever to be born abroad. 


Thus it was that Japan’s first representatives on the world stage were its acrobats and stage performers.

Lesley Downer’s latest novel, The Shogun’s Queen, an epic tale set in nineteenth century Japan, is out now in paperback. For more see www.lesleydowner.com.

All pictures courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

A lonely queen: the emotional widowhood of Queen Victoria, by Fay Bound Alberti

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A lonely queen

Loneliness is a 21st-century problem; an epidemic of global proportions, linked variously to heart problems, mental health crises and dementia among the old. We are social animals, psychologists say; we are supposed to be around other people. Thanks to social media, cuts to social care and a growth in living alone, however, many of us are alone for vast swathes of time.

There are old people who only see another human being once a month, according to some recent studies, and an unknown multitude too shy, too depressed, too unwell or incapacitated to make meaningful social connections. That's the rub, you see: the connections have to be meaningful. Not in an abstract sense, and to other people, but to us, as individuals.

Loneliness has seldom been explored as a historical problem, but it is one. It's all very well to lament the rise of loneliness in the digital age - one of many themes I explore in my forthcoming book on the subject - but people have been lonely, in one sense or another, in earlier times and cultures. One of the chapters in my book describes the loneliness of widowhood and old age, with one of my case studies being Queen Victoria.

Why was Victoria lonely? There have been many literary and visual adaptations of her life, but few have addressed this problematic question. She was lonely because she lost Albert, the man she relied upon in so many aspects of her life, at a relatively young age. And suddenly.


The wedding day


Victoria and Albert had married young - just 21 and 20 respectively, though Victoria had inherited the throne at 18 years old. Together they had nine children, and became inseparable by all accounts; he developed a reputation for public causes such as educational reform and the abolition of slavery, though he had only the role of consort.

When Albert died, aged only 42, Victoria entered a deep state of mourning, and wore black for the rest of her life. It did not matter that due to her rank and status Victoria was one of the least alone women of her age, or that she was attended by a multitude of servants, family members and hangers-on. She missed that special connection she had enjoyed with Albert, the sense that the two of them were unified in their emotional, political, familial and practical lives. Maybe that's why Mr Brown was so important to her; a man she could confide in about anything at all, a man who didn't only see the queen but also a woman.

There is something very specific about losing a husband, Victoria complained when her daughters later married and moved on with their own lives. Nobody could understand it, until they have experienced it. I would extend that further by acknowledging there is something very particular about losing a partner, a perceived 'soul-mate' especially when one imagined growing old with that person; being able to look back on a life lived when one is old and worn.

A relaxed and domestic portrait 


Queen Victoria wrote in her journal on 20 June 1884: "The 47th (!!) anniversary of my accession. May God help me, in my ever increasing loneliness, & anxieties'.

Loneliness cares not for status. And it changes over time, depending on our age, networks, expectations, religious belief and health. Perceptions of loneliness have also changed, from the 18th century to the present day. So, too, have perceptions of grief, and an appropriate time to mourn.

Queen Victoria was the subject of considerable criticism in her day about the length of time she spent in mourning, her choice of black garb, her reluctance to be seen in public. She became known nationally and internationally as a sad and lonely figure, even though she regained some public affection in her later years. The loss she felt over Albert's death, as well as her palpable resentment, anxiety and depression about being abandoned, never ended, though Victoria lived to be 81 years old.

In part, Victoria's critics were right. She didn't move on from Albert's death, which was an understandable and conscious choice. For all intents and purposes, the rituals of the household continued as though Albert had not died: from his clothes being laid out each morning to the marble hand, a cold replica of the real thing, that sat on Victoria's bedside table.

On a regular basis, Victoria would get out all the photographs of Albert; the gifts he had given her, sentimentally recalling memories that made her sad and happy in equal measure. She would visit his mausoleum and statutes and speak of him again and again to anyone who would listen. However painful it might have been, Victoria breathed in his absence every day. And perhaps that had a function; keeping the shadow of loneliness about her was the only way to keep Albert alive.

The mausoleum of Prince Albert and Queen Victoria 

A Biography of Loneliness will be published in 2018 by Oxford University Press. For more information on my work, please see my website.


Jack Fortune and the British Empire - by Sue Purkiss

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It's always lovely to read a good review, and of course I was delighted with one I was sent recently. It's about my recently published book for children, Jack Fortune and the Search for the Hidden Valley. It was written by Carmel Ballinger and it appeared in the Australian magazine, Magpies. There are lots of nice things in it, and when I read it, I would have turned cartwheels out of pure joy (had I been able to - I've never come close).

But there was one particular comment that made me feel very relieved indeed. Let me explain.

It used to seem that history was set. All you needed to do was read a textbook, or even Sellers and Yeatman's 1066 And All That, and then you would be quite clear as to what happened in the Battle of Hastings, how the Vikings laid waste to Anglo-Saxon Britain (wearing, of course, helmets with horns on, and possibly going from right to left),  and whether or not a particular King or Queen was a Good or a Bad Thing. It was all quite simple and straightforward.

But all that's changed, hasn't it? History is constantly being re-evaluated. Even the Vikings are now revealed to have been arty, creative types underneath all the brag and bluster.

And as I was writing Jack, I realised that there was a monumental, looming presence that I hadn't really taken proper account of. It's huge, and yet we almost don't see it, because it's so much a part of our history. I certainly don't think we're really clear as to what we think about it. It's a bit uncomfortable, so we tend to shy away from it. I refer to the British Empire. When I was a child in post-war Britain, there were still huge areas of the map which were coloured pink - that was just how it was, and by-and-large, it was assumed to be a good thing. We don't have an empire now, but we still honour people with, for example, the Order of the British Empire, as if the empire was something glorious. But was it? Well, probably, like the curate's egg (where does that saying come from?) it was good in parts.

The British Empire in 1915


I first got the idea for Jack when I read a book about the plant-hunters. I've written several posts about them - if you enter 'plant-hunters' into the search box on the right, you'll easily find them. The plant hunters seemed to me to be crazily brave, charging off into territory about which they knew little, often alone, in search of new plants to bring back to Britain. It was all very exciting, and I thought a story about a young plant-hunter could work brilliantly for children. (I'm not saying it did work brilliantly, but I tried.)

I decided to follow the adventures of Joseph Hooker in the Himalayas in the middle of the 19th century. But I felt I needed to do a lot of background reading. And as I did, I began to feel a bit uncomfortable. Hooker was undoubtedly brave, tough and resourceful. But was he just a little bit patronising towards the people whose lands he was passing through? After all, rhododendrons were new to him - but they weren't new to the inhabitants of Sikkim. Was it completely okay for him to take what he wanted, and for the British to use plants in ways that served their colonising mission - for instance, introducing tea production to India in order to compete with the Chinese monopoly?

I felt I needed to read more about the history of the British in India. One of the books was The White Mughals, by William Dalrymple - a fascinating read about India at the end of the 18th and beginning of the 19th centuries. At this time, at least some of the British were not just respectful of Indian culture - they fell in love with it. And India was not yet part of the empire. The seeds of British domination and exploitation had certainly already been sown - but it seemed a more innocent time: a more respectful time. (I accept that my knowledge is not at all profound, and this assessment may have been hopeful rather than accurate.)

Anyway, I decided to set my story at this point, rather than later in the 19th century. And I used Jack's youth as a way to observe with a clear, unprejudiced eye the way some of the British were already behaving; so for instance, when he first enters an English official's house in Calcutta (as it was called then), he is surprised to see that it looks exactly like a house back in England. Why come all this way, he wonders, to reproduce what you had left behind? His uncle is searching for a particular flower, a blue rhododendron: when he is refused permission to continue his expedition, it is Jack who rescues the situation - because he realises that what they must do is demonstrate respect for the country they have come to, rather than high-handedly assume that they can take exactly what they want, while giving nothing in return.

But I still felt a little uneasy. The more I'd read, the less certain I'd become that the British Empire was, as it was seen to be when I was a child, A Good Thing. And plant hunting seemed to be far more tied up with empire than I'd realised at first.

So the comment that particularly pleased me in this review? It was this: The author touches lightly on issues of colonisation - the role of servants, the idea of 'going native' and the relationship between the colonial power and the native countrymen. The reviewer had got it: she'd seen what I was trying to do. I sighed with relief and did a happy dance.

She said lots of other nice things too. I wish I could show you the whole review, but it's not online and I can't work out how to link to it - so you're off the hook. But you could just read Jack Fortune instead...



THE GATE OF ANGELS by PENELOPE FITZGERALD: Review by Penny Dolan.

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“The Library was connected with the public wash-house by the municipal fumigation rooms, where books could be disinfected after an outbreak of disease and old clothes could be boiled for redistribution to the needy.”
This brisk description immediately captured a time when Public Libraries – as opposed to Subscription Libraries - were seen as slightly dangerous places and when books, borrowed by the great unknown public, were once objects of suspicion and possible infection in themselves and not just a worrying way of spreading ideas to the poorer classes. I recall a time when children’s hands and nails were inspected before they were allowed a ticket to borrow books from the library, though that continued much later than the setting of this book.

The description above comes from a delight of a novel and a treat of a novelist. THE GATE OF ANGELS, set in 1912, is a work of historical fiction. The author, as I’m sure many of you will know, is Penelope Fitzgerald, and the novel published in 1990. My weak excuse for not having reading her work before is that we share the same first name, which is hardly evidence of a sound critical judgement on my part. In mitigation, Penelope, with all its weight of marital fidelity, is a terrible imposition on a child.

Fortunately, THE GATE OF ANGELS surfaced from a pile of dusty paperbacks at about the same moment the title was praised somewhere else. Thank you, revered reader! So I set the battered second-hand copy (“brought to me by Woman’s Journal”) by my bedside. That night I opened the pages and read myself into an unimaginably violent gale, bringing havoc to Cambridge: colleges, townsfolk and landscape alike.

What a wonderfully brisk and compact piece of writing it is, sharp as the East Anglian wind. The tightly witty prose carries a strong sense of the author’s voice and a world-sharpened understanding. 


She does not offer history as a sentimental or stirring recreation but writes with an observant, lively bustle, choosing a moment when all manner of social relationships, newly proposed scientific theories and religious beliefs were there to be questioned.

The characters, young and old, feel the drive of the new era that is underway, welcome or unwelcome: there are aged academics within the College of St Angelus and elsewhere keen to preserve ancient, pointless traditions and idle young men caught by curious rulings of the Disobligers Society and forced to argue for subjects they do not believe. Indeed, the whole novel seems filled with questioning people, Fitzgerald delights, too, in pointing out the small absurdities and trials of human living:
“The fire was banked up like a furnace, dividing the room into dismaying areas of heat and cold. . . .The college had never been thoroughly dried out since its foundation, but Fred, who had been brought up in a rectory, saw no reason to complain.” I do so enjoy that use of  “dismaying.”

The plot is about a romance that strikes Fred Fairly, a brilliant young physicist and Fellow of the all-male St Angelicus College in the middle of his anxieties about the great debates about science, mathematical certainty and philosophy of that time. Fred’s life is clearly one of upper-middle class privilege, although his sisters nicely conspire to keep him in his place. There is a wonderful scene near the start where Fred returns home to his father Rectory, only to be greeted by a roomful of women – his mother, siblings and the housekeeper – too busy to pay him any attention because they are all sewing suffragette banners for a next march.

Fitzgerald may have inherited a sense of that time as she was born in 1916 and grew up in the Archbishop’s Palace in Lincoln. Her mother, an Archbishop’s daughter, was one of the first women students at Oxford and her father was editor of Punch. The famous Knox brothers: the theologian and crime writer Ronald Knox, the cryptographer Dilwyn Knox and the biblical scholar Wilfrid Knox – were her uncles and also the subject of one of her biographies.

At the start of THE GATE OF ANGELS, the amiable Fred has lost his Christian faith; he is also rather lonely while knowing that, by the terms of his Fellowship, he is forbidden from marrying, particularly women of an unsuitable nature. Quiet moments of humour illuminate his bleak bachelor life. Fitzgerald reminds us that, being brought up in a Rectory, Fred can withstand the lack of heating within the dank, damp Saint Angelus. Fred endures.
 
However, as he cycles up a country road, a horse and cart charge out from a farm drive and two – or was it three? – cyclists collide with the vehicle. 

Due to a misunderstanding, the unconscious Fred Fairly and the bold and practical heroine, Daisy Saunders – also unconscious - are lain down close together in the same room. Waking so physically close to this warmly attractive young woman, Fred is overcome with love and tenderness: how can he not dream of marrying her? 

A courtship of a kind begins, with Daisy very much a forthright thinker:
“Fred, quite honestly, did you never take a girl out before?” said Daisy.
He seemed to find this difficult but only for a few moments. “I’ve never taken a girl out I’ve wanted to marry before.”
“She mayn’t have known that though,”said Daisy.

Alongside, the reader hears the story of Daisy’s life and her hand-to-mouth childhood, flitting with her ailing mother through the mean terraces of South London. She is definitely not of Fred’s social class. Orphaned at sixteen, Daisy has tried to find and keep clerical jobs, despite horrid yet understated male harassment. Despite all this, Daisy’s energy and confidence are bracing; one is cheered by her practical, pragmatic and rational self and feels for her when, having reached the status of a nursing student, things go awry.

In Fitzgerald’s world, I suspect things often go awry. Although the couple enjoy a short relationship, that third cyclist’s disappearance leads to local rumours, to donnish tales of ghostly haunting, and on to word of a concealed murder and finally a full-scale investigation of witnesses and an uncovering of a very awkward truth for Daisy and poor Fred.

Even so, just as all seems collapsed into catastrophe, Fitzgerald ends the novel with a moment of hope: just a glimpse of brightness rather than any confirmation, a small optimism that breaks out despite all one expects, and typical of the mix of dark and light that made this novel so very different and such an unexpected surprise.

THE GATE OF ANGELS is the third of what are considered Fitzgerald’s four history novels. I have looked at descriptions of the other three novels. The first, INNOCENCE, is set in Florence in 1950, is a romance between an impoverished aristocrat’s daughter and a doctor from a communist family and introduces the Italian Marxist Grammaci. The second, THE BEGINNING OF SPRING, is set in 1913 and describes the world just before the Russian revolution through the struggles of a British businessman and his family living in Moscow. Her fourth and final historical novel, THE BLUE FLOWER, was published in 1955, and is about Novalis, an 18C German poet and his love for an odd child; the poet Goethe and philosopher Schlegel also appear in the novel.
         
Now I cannot say that the content, as described above, would have made me hurry to take these novels off the shelf – especially with my afore-mentioned name phobia -  but if the pages have anything of the skill, flavour and bright, quiet wit of Penelope Fitzgerald’s THE GATE OF ANGELS, I am sure these novels will be a delight too.

Moreover, as much of Fitzgerald's work has been newly published by Fourth Estate, it will be quite possible to find out.

Penny Dolan. 


Note: Fitzgerald’s earlier books were inspired on her own experiences: THE BOOKSHOP reflects her knowledge of helping to run a bookshop in Southwold; OFFSHORE draws on life among the houseboat community in Battersea; HUMAN VOICES comes from her war-time life at the BBC while AT FREDDIE’S depicts life at a drama school. Then, feeling she had written out her own life, Fitzgerald began writing about other places and other times. She said she enjoyed the research more than the writing. She died in 2000.

Cooking Up History... - Celia Rees

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Cookery Books
Like many writers, I have lots of books: fiction, non fiction, biographies, books bought for research which could cover almost anything, travel books, history books, books about writing,  myths and legends. The list is endless. I have many book cases and book shelves but they are all stuffed full, so the books spill into piles: current reading, current writing projects, books I vaguely mean to read about things I vaguely mean to do. I need to get rid of some but like other writers, I find that difficult. I might need them. I know if I get rid of something, I will almost certainly have an idea which means I need to look at that very book.  Not only that, there's a deeper problem. I've had some of these books for a long time, since childhood, school, university. My own history is on those shelves.

No-where is this more apparent than on the cookery book shelves. I have a storage problem here, too. The bookcase in the kitchen which holds my collection is  jammed with spillover stacked around. Time for a cull, but once I begin to look at what's there, I feel reluctant to lose any of them. As Neil Young says: all my changes are there. Cookery books take you back to a particular time and place. Not only your own personal circumstances, but the society around you. I grew up in the fifties and sixties in a lower middle class household at a time when for most people (people like us) olive oil was sold in the chemist as a cure for ear ache, coffee came out of a bottle and spaghetti came out of a tin.
My mother was a very good cook, as her mother had been before her, but the food we ate was a plain, British cuisine. British food has been much maligned, perhaps because it is so familiar to us, or maybe because restaurant and hotel food used to do it so badly, but when it is done well, it is very good indeed. My mother could see no reason to go outside her extensive repertoire of traditional dishes. If she used a recipe book at all, it was Marguerite Patten.


As a child, I was happy enough to go along with this, I knew nothing else, but as an older teenager, I began to be aware that there were different kinds of food out there, the kind of things that people ate in books and in films. My first introduction to foreign food, as it was suspiciously termed, was Chinese. My brother took me to a Chinese restaurant in Birmingham for a Businessman's Lunch. After some initial caution, it looked so different, I tried a forkful of Chow Mein and I loved it! Deep Fried Banana - even better. Not long after this, a boyfriend took me to an Italian restaurant in Soho. I burnt my mouth on the Cannelloni that I had chosen because I wasn't sure how to eat 'proper' spaghetti but I was determined to learn.

My first foray into 'foreign' cooking was when my brother introduced me to Vesta and a whole battery of exotic meals: Chow Mein, Risotto, Paella and Curry. I thought they were achingly sophisticated and they didn't tax my minimal (at this time) culinary skills.



My mother did not approve. She didn't object to the foreignness but she did object to almost everything else. The highly processed nature of it, all the goodness freeze dried out of it.  If my brother and I wanted to eat food like this, we would learn how to cook it together from fresh ingredients. She bought an international cookery book called something like Foods From Around the World, which to my lasting regret I no longer have, and we never looked back.


When I went away to university, this little book went with me - a gift from my mother. Wise woman, she knew the ways to a man's heart. I've had the book ever since, stained and dog-eared the pages browned and foxed. I still cook from it sometimes - there is an excellent recipe for Sweet and Sour Pork - and Goulash.

After university, I moved to Manchester and remember buying Susan Campbell and Caroline Conran's  Poor Cook in the bookshop in St Anne's Square. I forget the name of the shop but it is a Waterstones now. Manchester introduced me to different cuisines:  Italian, Greek, Mexican, Peking Chinese as well as different styles of Indian cooking. I had my first taste of Lasagna, Hummus, Moussaka, Peking Duck, Chilli Con Carne, Rogan Josh. I got the hang of eating spaghetti and mastered chopsticks. Susan Campbell and Caroline Conran not only taught me how to prepare different kinds of recipes but also told me about food, cookery and cookery writers. The ingredients were readily available: ethnic shops for vegetables and spices, hippy health food places for the beans, chick peas and lentils needed for vegetarian recipes (like those in The Cranks Recipe Book - what goes around comes around). Not every effort was a success, I remember my first attempt at Hummus had the look and consistency of quick setting cement, but I was hooked on trying different things and hooked on cookery books. I bought books on Greek Cookery, Indian Cookery, French, Italian. I discovered the great cookery writers, Elizabeth David and Jane Grigson and read their books avidly. I found that a good cookery book is not just about recipes, it is about the places the recipes come from, the people who live there, what they eat and how they live. Cookery books like this make you want to travel, experience those places for yourself.


Nothing evokes the past more than a particular dish, a particular recipe and, for me, nothing conjures a time more than the book in which that recipe is to be found. From Elizabeth David and Jane Grigson through Graham Kerr, Keith Floyd and the Two Fat Ladies,  River Cafe, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, to Ottolenghi and Hemsley and Hemsley, these cookery books don't just catalogue a personal culinary history, they take us from the middle of the twentieth century into the new millennia. They chart changes in what we eat, and how we live. The market follows taste and demand. What was once a rarity is now readily available in any supermarket. One day, Ottolenghi and zahtah will mark a point in our history as clearly as Marguerite Patten and Camp coffee. That's why I can't get rid of my old cookery books. No matter how old they are, or what kind of state they are in, they speak of time and place and what the world was like then.



Celia Rees
www.celiarees.com

Countdown to a Coup by L.J. Trafford

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“Once killing starts it is difficult to draw a line.” 

So, said Tacitus about the 15th January 69AD. This was the day that Emperor Galba was overthrown by Otho. Thus giving what would be known as the year of the four emperors a very bloody start.
Galba had only been emperor since June the previous year. He’d only actually been in Rome since October 68AD. He was dead a mere three months later.

What in the Gods name had gone wrong?


Galba


On paper Galba had every credential necessary to be emperor. As Suetonius drily puts it “It would be a long story to give in detail his illustrious ancestors and the honorary inscriptions of the entire race, but I shall give a brief account of his immediate family”

Galba obtained the favour of Augustus’ wife, Livia whose influence promoted and enriched him. Caligula had made him Governor of Upper Germany, Claudius gave him the governorship of Africa and Nero bequeathed him the same position in Spain. He was illustrious enough to be considered a potential match for Nero’s mother Agrippina after she lost her husband.

At seventy-three years old he was experienced beyond all in governing an empire and had the respect of most. When Nero’s reign faltered and ultimately collapsed, Galba seemed to be the perfect step in.

As Tacitus notes “As long as he remained a subject he seemed too great a man to be one, and by common consent possessed the makings of a ruler." And then adds the kicker finish "Had he never ruled.”

Galba was a great man. He might have been a great emperor at the right time; 68/-69 AD was not that time. Right from his entry into Rome Galba wrong -footed in almost every sphere.
In more stable times his keenness to balance the books, to rebuild the machinery of government, to stamp control on the army and the Praetorian Guard might have borne fruit. Certainly, Vespasian tackled many of the same problems with not a little success.
Galba, however, suffered from the record set by his predecessor. Though Nero had not been popular with the Senate and upper classes, he was wildly so with the people of Rome and the provinces. Setting himself up as the antithesis of the popular, charming, glamorous Nero could only leave Galba noticeably lacking in Imperial qualities.

It also exposed him as a hypocrite for as he blanketed Rome in stern austerity his aids: Vinius, Laco and Icelus were busy enriching themselves. It is likely Galba was unaware of such corruption and theft from his supporters. He should have been.
As Galba selectively punished Nero’s closest lackies and attempted to claim back moneys given them, he declined to reward the Praetorian Guard who had made him emperor. It was certainly a grave error but not necessarily fatal, had it not been for the machinations of Marcus Salvius Otho.


Otho

Whereas Galba had chalked up a long, distinguished and incident free career as a public servant, Marcus Salvius Otho had obtained honours by a quite different method. After a wild youth that included that odd Roman adolescent pastime of going about the city at night beating up the populace (a favourite game of both Nero and Caligula, quite why is anyone’s guess) he aspired to a position in Nero’s court.

These youthful hobbies were clearly extravagant and notorious enough that Otho felt he couldn’t rely on a personal recommendation to secure a role at court. Instead he set about seducing an Imperial freedwoman of older years (decrepit as Suetonius not so tactfully puts it). This got him in. And when he was in he soon impressed emperor Nero (immorally according to some, by force of personality and similarity to the emperor by others, possibly a combination of the two by me).

So ‘in’ was Otho that on the infamous day Nero planned to murder his mother, Agrippina, Otho held a banquet for mother and son to deflect suspicion of the grim deed about to be enacted.

This imperial favour was not to last. The two friends comprehensively fell out over a woman: Poppaea Sabina. There was much speculation about the relationship between Otho, Poppaea and Nero. She married Otho, but was this just a favour to the emperor so that he might have easy access to the woman he desired?
Or did Otho genuinely love Poppaea and the emperor stole his wife from him?
Or was there some strange ménage a trois occurring that was wrecked by jealousy?
Whatever the truth, Otho and Poppaea divorced, Nero and Poppaea married and Otho found himself appointed governor of Lusitania (modern day Portugal).

Here Otho surprised all by being a competent Governor. Was this time away from court shenanigans the making of him? Had he finally grown into responsibility?

We shall never know. But what we do know is that Otho was one of the very first governors to side with Galba. His rush to Galba’s side indicates that his old pal Nero was clearly not forgiven for the Poppaea humiliation.



October - December 68AD
Otho travelled with the new emperor, Galba from Spain to Rome. He made a friend of Galba’s aid, Titus Vinius, perhaps using some of the charm that had won him Nero’s friendship. There was talk of cementing this friendship by way of a marriage between Vinius' daughter and Otho. Otho also set about winning the troops round:

 “Whenever he entertained the prince at dinner, he gave a gold piece to each man of the cohort on guard, and put all the soldiers under obligation in one form or another. Chosen arbiter by a man who was at law with his neighbour about a part of his estate, he bought the whole property and presented it to him. As a result there was hardly anyone who did not both think and openly declare that he alone was worthy to succeed to the empire.” Plutarch


Was this what he had wanted from the offset, to be Galba’s heir? Galba was 73, he was a widower (with a taste for sturdy, hard young men) and no children. Galba was no long time buddy of Otho’s; two more different men could scarcely be found. Galba was an old school stern patrician with an extensive career in dutiful public service. Otho was forty years his junior and had gained his governorship of a province by way of scandalously handing over his wife to Nero.
Why would Otho believe Galba would make him his heir?
Yet the sources are unanimous that he did. It is reminiscent of the adventurer spirit that had led to the younger Otho shamelessly to court a much older woman to get to Nero.
Otho was happily prepared to court the entire army, praetorian guard, city populace and Titus Vinius to get to Galba.
But of course this came at a price, a very high price. A price that Otho had no means to pay. Unless he had access to the Imperial treasury that is….



January 69AD
Galba had ignored all pressures from his advisers (Vinius heavily promoting Otho) to name an heir. He was far too busy sorting out the mess Nero had left behind. But then something suddenly changed
Coin of Galba
his mind.

News reached Rome that on 1st January the German legions had declined to offer the traditional new year oath of loyalty to the emperor Galba. They’d instead offered an oath of loyalty to their own governor Vitellius and declared him emperor.

This forced Galba’s hand. He needed to lay down a secured accession to meet this new threat.

The announcement was due to take place on 10th January.


Otho awaited with eagerness.




10th January 69AD
It was a dark and stormy day…. No really it was. Here’s Tacitus “The 10th January was an unpleasantly rainy day, abnormally disturbed by thunder, lightening and a threatening sky.”

Galba summoned his chosen heir and announced his decision.
This new Caesar was not Otho. It was a man named Piso Licinianus.


"As for Piso, those who were present at the scene and observed his voice and countenance were amazed to see him receive so great a favour without great emotion, though not without appreciation; whereas in the outward aspect of Otho there were many clear signs of the bitterness and anger with which he took the disappointment of his hopes." Plutarch

Otho had been so sure of his success, so completely and utterly convinced that Galba would name him as his heir. No doubt all those around him had been saying the same. It was a huge shock to his ego. It was also a huge shock to his creditors who'd been rubbing their hands with glee at getting their money back once Otho was Caesar.
Which put Otho in an awkward position. A position he needed to somehow escape from.

"He flatly declared that he could not keep on his feet unless he became emperor, and that it made no difference whether he fell at the hands of the enemy in battle or at those of his creditors in the Forum."

And so a plot was formed.



11th January 69AD
Otho set his freedman, Onomastus to the task. Working on the good favours Otho had already built up by personal charisma, Onomastus added further coinage and extravagant promises.

So successful was he with the soldiers that they decided they would carry Otho off immediately to their barracks and declare him emperor. But this was abandoned, according to Tacitus, because of the "difficulty of achieving coordination between men who were the worse for drink."

Which begs the question was Onomastus handing out wine skins as bribes?



12-14th January 69AD
We'll assume a lot of plotting was going on. Perhaps some charming. Maybe a bit less heavy drinking.



15th January 69AD
Dawn – Galba and a handful of notable personages, including Otho, were offering a sacrifice at a temple. The priest Umbricius examined the entrails of the sacrificial victim and declared, with a hint of drama I believe we cam assume, that "treachery hung over the emperor's head".
 Umbicius then proceeded to helpfully point to where he felt that treachery might be hanging from. His finger was directed straight at the man standing behind Galba, Otho.

There are no set rules, as far as I'm aware, as to how one ought to behave when accused by a priest in a temple full of people of high treason.
Plutarch says this was how Otho took it:
 "He stood there in confusion and with a countenance changing to all sorts of colours through fear."

There has to be some doubt as to Plutarch's version of this tale. If the prophecy was delivered so unambiguously why wasn't Otho arrested at the scene? Why was he allowed to just leave?
Leave he did, arm in arm with Onomastus to where he had been promised a force to declare him emperor


Morning - There were twenty three soldiers waiting to salute Emperor Otho. Though horrified by their lack of numbers, Otho did not back down. And anyway on the way to the praetorian barracks Tacitus says they picked up roughly the same number of soldiers. So forty six then.
Imperial palace overlooking the Forum

Whilst Otho settled into the Praetorian barracks with his forty six men news was fast reaching Galba on the Palatine Hill that something was afoot. News had also reached the general populace that something exciting was happening. They gathered outside the palace yelling death to the conspirators as if at the games.
Inside the palace Galba was caught between two courses; should he stay in the palace, arm the Imperial slaves and let this conspiracy fizzle out?
Or should they leave the palace and set to stamping it out forcefully before it could spread?


As the debate raged a messenger came with news: Otho had been murdered at the barracks by the Praetorian Guard.

Outside the palace the plebs cheered at this wonderful news. Galba buckled on his breastplate and was carried out on a chair to meet his loyal public and celebtrate the demise of the traitor.



Afternoon  - The thing was Otho wasn't dead. He was very much alive and his agents were the ones
who'd spread this very rumour with express purpose of getting Galba to leave the palace

It was a trap.

As Galba, along with heir Piso, were carried through the sea of spectators Otho ordered his (now many more than forty six) men to rush in. As the armed soldiers poured in panic ensued amongst the civilians and they hastened to evacuate the forum.

Galba found his chair bashed hither and thither. His panicked bearers dropped the chair and legged it. Galba fell to the ground. With the swords above him he bared his throat and told them to strike and be done with it. It was to be his last command as emperor.

Piso ran to safety at the nearby House of the Vestals. He was dragged out and hacked to death.

Both their heads were cut off, impaled and carried in procession about the Forum,





Forum at night
Evening - "The forum was still bloodstained and littered with bodies when Otho was carried through it to the Capitol and from there to the palace." Tacitus

Otho did not long enjoy the position he had so bloodily obtained. On reaching the palace he was given full access to the Imperial correspondence and the news that Vitellius had been made emperor by the German legions and that 70,000 men were marching to Rome to claim this throne.


Had he known that would he ever had enacted the coup of the 15th January? A sensible man would not but Otho I think we can say was an adventurer with a heavy reckless streak. Ultimately that streak was his undoing.

The complexity of medieval Soberton (1) by Carolyn Hughes

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When, several years ago, I embarked upon writing the first of the "Meonbridge Chronicles", I read a lot of books in preparation. Most of the books were filling in the gaps in my knowledge of how ordinary people lived in the 14th century: their homes and clothes, their food and tools, what they did and what they thought. What, I now realise, I didn’t much investigate, was how the manorial society in which they lived was managed.
Of course, I knew something – I knew about the feudal system and that it was already beginning to break down by the time of the Black Death. I knew about lords and tenants, and manorial obligations. So in the first "Meonbridge Chronicle", Fortune’s Wheel, I imagined that my fictional Meonbridge had a “lord of the manor” (Sir Richard) and a couple of hundred tenants before the plague halved the population, all living together in a state of sometimes more or less harmonious equilibrium, sometimes uneasy tension. What I didn’t really think about was how Sir Richard had acquired his ownership of Meonbridge (and his many other estates across the south of England). Did he hold it (them) from an overlord, such as the king, or some ecclesiastical overlord, such as the bishop of Winchester or Beaulieu Abbey? Or perhaps he held it from his own “liege lord”, a fictional Sussex earl? I hadn’t worked that out, and, from the point of view of the story, it didn’t matter all that much.
But the third "Meonbridge Chronicle", which I am currently drafting, addresses matters of inheritance, and so it is interesting to consider how manors were held and passed on in the Middle Ages. So I’ve done a bit more reading…
My reading has been mainly confined to two sources: the Domesday Book, and one of my favourite resources, the Victoria County History (accessed from the British History Online (BHO) website, about which I have waxed lyrical on The History Girls before.
In that blog post, I talked mostly about Meonstoke, which lies about halfway along the length of the River Meon and is, in my mind, the village that “Meonbridge” aligns to most closely. What I read of Meonstoke’s manorial history was interesting and reasonably straightforward. This time, however, I chose to read about Soberton, a couple of miles downstream of Meonstoke, and the picture I have gained is no less interesting, but far less clear. The results of my reading have been both enlightening and confusing. I wanted to gain a general insight into Soberton’s medieval manorial structure and to discover some of the people who held, and disposed of, the manors. I have achieved that, more or less, but it is a complex picture.
This is the first of a two-part post about what I have learned of Soberton’s manorial arrangements. Because the picture is rather complicated, I have more information than I can possibly include in one month’s post. But I think it’s interesting enough to warrant telling all!

The parish of Soberton and Newtown is apparently one of the largest, geographically, in the United Kingdom. Today, the parish is still largely rural, or semi-rural, with several working farms, a few horticultural and industrial enterprises, and a population of about 1600. Its main church, St. Peter’s, was begun in the 12th century. A second church, in Newtown, was built in the 19th century, as was a Methodist Chapel in Soberton Heath (now a private home). The southern part of the parish (Soberton Heath/Newtown) contains a good area of the Forest of Bere, once a vast area of royal woodland stretching from Romsey, south towards Southampton, east to beyond the Sussex border, and as far north as Winchester. It is presumed that the Norman kings used Bere Forest for hunting, as well as the New Forest to the west in Dorset, and it is reputed that Henry VIII, Elizabeth I and Charles I all hunted here. The oak woods provided timber for building, including warships and bridges, from the 13th to the 19th centuries. I have written more about the Forest in the wider context of “industry” in the Meon Valley, in an earlier History Girls post.
Most, though not quite all, of the modern parish lies within the boundaries of the South Downs National Park.
One of the constituents of the BHO website, the Victoria County History for Hampshire, provides extensive and fascinating information about the historical ownership, as well as the important buildings and features, of Hampshire’s manors. As I said in my earlier post about the BHO, it is intriguing to see how the ownership of quite small manors, or parts of manors, sometimes rested with quite famous individuals, like the bishops of Winchester, or the (in)famous third Earl of Southampton, Henry Wriothesley.

Henry Wriothesley, 3rd Earl of Southampton,
portrait attributed to John de Critz [Public domain]
In the Meon Valley, many of the estates were originally owned by the Crown or by some illustrious ecclesiastical institution. But, as I have discovered, many of these estates were in practice held by aristocratic or knightly families, some of whom retained their manorial holdings for generations and centuries, although sometimes manors were subdivided to provide for multiple heirs, or sold off to meet liabilities. Families such as the Waytes, the  Newports, the de Venuz’s and the Wallops were long-standing “lords of the manor” in Soberton. In the case of Soberton, too, I have noticed how relatively often women seemed to inherit and hold – or dispose of – manors, giving the impression that, for several centuries at least, women had more power over their property than one might have thought.
I have discovered, too, how fascinating it is to see – or to try to fathom – how locations named in earlier centuries align with what we have now. I don’t know quite why I find this so absorbing… Perhaps it’s something to do with what I also said in one of those earlier posts: “It’s somehow wonderful, and somehow humbling, to remember, in these places where I take my walk, and where I sometimes stop to stand and stare, how very many men and women have been here in the centuries before me.” It’s about wanting to understand the shape of our ancestors’ lives.
According to the Domesday Book of 1086, Soberton (attached to the Meonstoke Hundred) had four main “estates”, which together had a population of about 35 households, or perhaps 150 or so people. There is also an entry in Domesday for [East] Hoe, which lies within the eastern boundary of the parish, with another nine households. Domesday also tells us of a place called “Benestede” (or Bensted), with 12 households, which lay on the western boundary of the parish of Soberton (the River Meon), though it no longer exists under this name. I am including a reference to it in this post largely because of its geographical proximity to the Soberton manors and it shares some of the same personalities.
The Domesday entries for Soberton "proper" show that two of the four estates belonged at that time to the king, William I. A major part of Soberton had, at the time of the Conquest in 1066, formed part of the estates of Godwin, Earl of Wessex. His son, King Harold Godwinson, made his father’s a crown estate. Domesday says:
“Harold took it from him and put it in his revenue; it is so still.”
These estates remained in the overlordship of the king.
The entry in the Domesday Book that refers to the estates once owned by Godwin.
A third Soberton estate at the time of the Conquest had belonged to “Wulfnoth”, who I assume was either Godwin’s father, Wulfnoth Cild, who held vast estates in Sussex and was possibly the thegn of South Sussex, or another Wulfnoth Godwinson, Godwin’s sixth son and Harold’s younger brother. By the time of Domesday, the estate was in the hands of Herbert the Chamberlain, who was chamberlain of the Winchester treasury.
The fourth Soberton estate was crown land in 1066 but, by Domesday, it belonged to Henry the Treasurer (about whom I know no more). 
[East] Hoe was again crown land in 1066 but, by Domesday, it had been transferred to Hugh de Port, a French-English Norman aristocrat who accumulated a great number of estates, perhaps as many as 53 by 1086, most of which were in Hampshire.
Bensted, which was located just outside Soberton parish, was owned by the bishop of Winchester both prior to and after Domesday, but the wealthy Hugh de Port held it (or part of it) in 1086.
So, that was the situation in 1086. But, in the decades and centuries that followed, it seems that the, perhaps initially quite clearly delineated, estates referred to in the Domesday Book became divided and subdivided, according to the practice of “subinfeudation”, by which tenants who held land from an overlord, including the king, sub-let or alienated part of it to heirs or others. As a result, says the Victoria County History, it became difficult to trace the subsequent history of some of the estates. The results of the “subinfeudation” in Soberton made its manorial structure really rather complex, and I have enjoyed trying – while not entirely succeeding – to tease out the details.
The manors of Soberton shown in relation to the existing settlements.
The dotted line is the parish boundary. © Author

From the information in the History, the five Domesday estates in Soberton parish were divided (eventually) into about seven manors:
  •   Soberton
  •   Longspiers
  •   Flexland (Englefield)
  •   Wallop’s Manor
  •   Russell Flexland
  •   Bere
  •   East Hoe 
The History doesn’t mention a Bensted at this location at all.
[As an aside, on a website called Manorial Counsel Limited, I have found that lordships of the following manors exist: Soberton, Russell Flexland, Wallop’s Manor, Bere, Longspiers, East Hoe, but also Faulkner’s Pluck and Huntbourne. None of these titles are available for sale (which is partly the function of the website), so whether this means someone actually still owns them all, I really don’t know!]

Soberton
The Clere family held “a” (rather than “the”) manor of Soberton from the king from early times. In the reign of Edward III, the abbot of Beaulieu Abbey purchased “a” manor of Soberton. It seems unclear exactly where this manor (if indeed it was the same manor) was located, but perhaps it was where Soberton village is now, to the north of the parish, and maps to the two estates identified as belonging to the king in 1086? I can’t tell this from my reading of the History, but I suppose it is a reasonable conjecture.
Anyway, as early as 1229, the forests in Soberton that belonged to the Abbey were extensive enough to justify the king ordering the abbot to supply the royal navy with five hundred wickerwork baskets (cleias) and two hundred bridges. In 1359, the Abbey was granted free warren in Soberton, and in 1393 the king confirmed the right of common of pasture within the Forest of Bere for the animals of the tenants of Soberton. About this time, the Abbey began what seemed to be a common practice for overlords, to farm out the manor, and it was let to various tenants from then onwards. 
In 1411, the manor was leased to a Richard Newport and his heirs for two hundred years. This lease seems to have been equivalent to a sale, for no annual rent was mentioned in the indenture. In 1477, the manor was said to be the property of Henry Stafford, the second Duke of Buckingham, who was married to Catherine Woodville, sister of Elizabeth, the wife of King Edward IV.
Later in the 15th century, the manor and other premises in Soberton were passed to John Dale and Richard Kingsmill, apparently as trustees, rather than owners. Richard Newport’s grandson, John, who had inherited the manor, died in 1521 with no children to succeed him. John’s widow, Elizabeth, died six years later. They were buried together inside St Peter’s church, in a marble tomb that can still be seen in what was once called the Lady Chapel, and now the Curll Chapel. Elizabeth left fifty sheep, two cattle and ten marks in money to the church, and 3s. 4d. (about £70 or 5 days  wages for a skilled tradesman) to each of her Soberton tenants.
In 1544, William Dale, presumably a son or grandson of John Dale, and still a “trustee”, passed the manor of Soberton, together with those of Longspiers and Flexland Englefield (see next month’s post), to a Walter Bonham who, five years later, sold them to Thomas Wriothesley, the first Earl of Southampton. The earl died a year later. His grandson Henry, who inherited Soberton at the age of eight on the death of his father in 1581, became the infamous third Earl. Towards the end of Elizabeth’s reign, Henry was drawn into the Earl of Essex’s conspiracy and was sent to the Tower when the plot failed. In 1601 he was convicted of treason (and presumably deprived of all his estates). However, Elizabeth’s Secretary of State, Sir Robert Cecil, had Henry’s sentence commuted to life imprisonment. But in 1603, he was released by the new king, James I, who also restored to him his Soberton manor (among many others, I presume!) and, four years later, granted him free warren, view of frankpledge, assize of bread and beer, and various other privileges. When Henry died on the king’s service abroad in 1624, his heir was his son Thomas, then aged sixteen.
Walter Curll, Bishop of Winchester (1632-1647)
However, within the next few years, Soberton was sold to Dr. Walter Curll, who was bishop of Winchester from 1632 to 1647. When, in 1645, the Parliamentary forces under Oliver Cromwell captured Winchester, Walter went into exile to his manor in Soberton. It was said that he “led a retired life there in a sort of obscurity for a year and a half or thereabouts in a declining state of health. He was brought up to London for advice, but died 1647 about seventy two”. After his death, the manor was taken from the family but, in 1651, Walter’s widow and his son petitioned for its restoration. It was restored, and passed eventually to Walter’s grandson, another Walter. Then, in 1678, this Walter’s daughter, Anna, married Thomas Lewis, and brought the manor to her husband. 
And it wasn’t long before Thomas became the owner of nearly all the manors of Soberton parish.



I will continue Soberton’s manorial story in next month’s post.

Time and Tide Museum, Great Yarmouth by Imogen Robertson

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The weather today in London is so blissful, it seems odd to remember the Easter Bank Holiday was chilled and windswept. It was. So obviously Ned and I thought it was the ideal day to take our nephew to Great Yarmouth. Obviously we hit the pier (see above) and the arcades and I won a spectacular keyring on the tuppence cascades - only cost me a tenner - but it wasn't exactly hanging out on the beach weather. In a way I'm glad it wasn't, because the rain drove us into the Time and Tide Museum and what a particularly brilliant museum it is. 

There's a nice 30 second video to give you a flavour here:
https://www.museums.norfolk.gov.uk/time-tide/whats-here/the-galleries

The kids in the video are obviously having fun, but there is a great deal for middle-aged history enthusiasts like myself too.

The museum gives a full sense of the town and the deep history of the area, entertains while it informs and is packed with those small, evocative treasures you only find in local museums. I mean those artefacts which seem to give a concrete sense of a person, a place and a time. The museum used to be a smoke house, and they’ve hung little cardboard herring up among the blackened beams in one section. The wood still gives off the smell of smoke. You can also wander down a narrow Victorian street, see the old posters and knick-knacks of the peak tourist trade times of the fifties, and see what the local Romans had for their dinner. Unsurprisingly, there is also a lot about herring.


My favourite display though was one they have put together to celebrate the earliest known museum in Great Yarmouth, the Museum Boulterianum, the collection of Daniel Boulter (1740-1802), a collection, as the signage says designed to educate and intrigue. 





The collection which made up the museum were sold off, but I think Time and Tide have done a brilliant job of reimagining what might have been in it. They do have one of the original tickets to the museum though, look at these wonderful Georgians being intrigued and educated: 


My squiffy shot of the ticket on display...


The Museum Boulterianum opened in 1778, and you can read some more details about the original collection on the Norfolk Museums Facebook page. That page does say, at time of writing, that Daniel Defoe gave the museum a puff in his Tour of Norfolk of 1795, which does seem a bit dubious given Defoe died in 1731. I think they are referring to The Norfolk Tour 




The book also contains an excellent description of the herring being landed. 

Visiting reminded me of a similar museum which turns up in one of my books, Island of Bones, which was opened by Peter Crosthwaite in Keswick around the same time. The Keswick Museum still holds some of his original collection. Does anyone know if someone has done a general history of this sort of museum? The Cabinets of Curiosity put together by middle-class business men for public display rather than private study? Where they got their artefacts, their reception, influence and what happened to them? I am quite sure they have a great deal to teach us. Any one got any leads for me?

www.imogenrobertson.com
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