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The Men Behind The Glass Sheena Wilkinson

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I’m writing this on 4 November 2018 at my home thirty miles from the Irish border. A border I cross at least weekly, a border whose future I worry about daily thanks to Brexit.


The British border in Ireland during the Troubles


On the radio today I have heard –


Tributes to Wilfred Owen, who was killed in action 100 years ago today, including the playing of a German bugle he found on a dead German soldier. This was moving. 


The president of the United States declare that barbed wire ‘used properly’ can be beautiful. This was horrifying. And disgusting. 


Wilfred Owen
A few weeks ago I was involved in a creative writing project in a local school, helping sixth formers to respond creatively to the  school’s World War One archive. The initiative was part of a wider school remembrance project called The Men Behind The Glass. https://menbehindtheglass.co.uk.


Campbell College is a boys’ school in east Belfast -- C S Lewis was a pupil -- and between 1914-1918 many of its alumni served as soldiers, medics, and chaplains. This was, of course, typical of schools of the period, all over Europe.  In my previous career as a teacher I explored the wartime experiences of my own school, Methodist College as inspiration for the story ‘Each Slow Dusk’ in The Great War (Walker Books, 2014) and the novel Name Upon Name(Little Island, 2015). (I wrote about it for my first ever HG post -- http://the-history-girls.blogspot.com/search?q=sheena+wilkinson.)  So when I was asked to work with pupils  at Campbell, along with two neighbouring girls’ schools, Strathearn and Bloomfield Collegiate, I was delighted – this was so very much my kind of project. 


Campbell College
Photos of the 127 men who died in the conflict are displayed around the walls in the school’s central hall – hence ‘the men behind the glass’. Our work was designed to take their stories off the walls and into the hearts and minds and imaginations of the sixth formers who honoured their memories with their responses. I shared with the group my own experience of using an archive to inspire creative work, and we discussed the issues involved. They had biographies of some of the men, which they used as inspiration for their own work – mostly imagined letters home from the western front.

My story in this anthology was inspired
by research in another school archive
The highlight of the project was hearing the students read their work in that hall, surrounded by the portraits of young men often barely older than they. I didn’t understand every word of the finished pieces – my A Level German studies are thirty years behind me now, but that didn’t matter. 


Oh yes. Did I not say? The pieces were in German. It was a German A Level class, and the stories were shared online with a partner school in Germany who will be writing their own wartime stories in English.  Hearing these letters read in German was extraordinarily moving: not only had the students imagined themselves into the minds of young Irish soldiers from a century ago, but, by voicing the sentiments in German, they were also echoing the words of the thousands of German soldiers who would have written home from the same fronts. In that way, it was the most truly European project I have been involved with. Physically the students may not have left the school; imaginatively and emotionally they travelled beyond borders, with or without barbed wire. 


When I heard that German bugle played today, in memory of Wilfred Owen, I detected the same notes of hope. I just hope they can be heard above the clamour of more raucous voices.


THE OUTRAGEOUS FORTUNE OF ABEL MORGAN by Cynthia Jefferies. Review by Adèle Geras

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Cindy Jeffries is a friend of mine. My name appears in the acknowledgements of this novel. I always begin reviews of books by friends with a declaration like this because I don't want to end up on the back pages of Private Eye accused of logrolling.  I hope readers of this blog will believe me when I say I would not recommend a book  I didn't enjoy. If I'm not liking a book, I stop reading it.  Pleasure is what I'm after.






And pleasure is what The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan provides. Not just a general pleasure either, but several different kinds of pleasure at the same time.






First, there's the narrative, which follows two people: Christopher Morgan and his son, Abel. Chapters from each point of view alternate for most of the novel and Jeffries has Christopher's account unfold in the third person while his son gives a first person account of events. By doing this, she varies the tone and style, and  makes things much more interesting. 




Left: Cornelius Claesz van Wieringen    Right: Willem-Alexander van de Velde ll

Secondly, readers of this book won't be bored. I'm going to use a reviewer's cliché and call it a 'roller-coaster ride.' It's a very exciting story, full of adventures, secrets, mistakes that seem uncorrectable, wicked men, a woman who's far from angelic, pirates, slaves, and traffickers, smugglers and even a walk on appearance from King Charles II and Samuel Pepys. I'm going to give away nothing about the plot, except to say that the widowed Christopher is left with a baby to care for. He loses the child, then finds him, then loses him again. He spends the best part of the novel on a quest to find him. And while he does this, Abel is having adventures of his own.



Thirdly, the characters (and we meet many) are brought to life very well. We can see them and hear them and several of them (especially the villain with the false arm and hand) stay in your mind long after you've closed the book. We care about Abel and his father because Jeffries has involved us so closely in their thoughts and feelings.




Fourthly, every place we visit as we're reading is vividly there. We move from the West Country to Constantinople, to London, to the Caribbean, to Jamaica and the Netherlands and it's wonderful to be able to travel so far while sitting snugly by the fire. I did actually read some of this book in front of my gas fire while my central heating was briefly on the blink, and it's the perfect way to enjoy this story.  Because my main feeling as I  read was that this is an old-fashioned novel in the very best sense of the term: happy to tell a thrilling and moving story in elegant and evocative prose and above all, one that everyone in the family can share.  I really hope there's an audio version on the way. Listening to that would be a splendid way to pass a long car journey. Meanwhile, I can heartily recommend the book. 

Photo of Cindy Jeffries by Tammy Lyn Photography


All other photos provided by Cindy Jeffries.

'If blood is not drawn on Martinmas Eve ...' by Karen Maitland

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St Martin renounces his weapons.
Artist: Simone Martini (1284-1344)
This week is the feast of Martinmas which begins on the evening of the 10th November. It is a festival, like many Christian celebrations, whose origins go back centuries before Christ. 

Martin of Tours (c.316-397), a Roman solider who later became a monk and bishop, was a favourite saint of the Middle Ages. But the date had long been marked as the first day of winter and when, Pope Martin I (papacy 649- 655) established Martinmas as important Church festival, he may have been trying to wean pagan northern Europeans from the winter celebrations associated with the old gods. Bede (c. 672-735) records that the Anglo-Saxon term for November was Blot Monath, or ‘Sacrifice Month,’ when they slaughtered livestock which could not be kept over winter, but also, according to Bede, ‘in this month the cattle which were to be slaughtered were dedicated to the gods.’

Martinmas quickly became established in the Christian calendar as the day when the work of killing and preserving of meat for winter began, and the community feasted before the 40 days of St Martin’s Lent or Advent. In Shakespeare’s Henry IV Part 2, Falstaff, is referred to as ‘the martlemas’. The Martlemas’ or ‘Mart’ was an ox or a bull that was fattened and slaughtered for the Martinmas feast. In some towns and villages, the bull would first be run through the streets.
'Falstaff'' by Edward Von Grutzner 91846-1925)


Writing in 1646, Richard Butcher described the running of the martlemas in Stamford, Lincolnshire. The butchers provided the town with the wildest bull they could buy. The bull was released and the townspeople gave chase, trying to kill it with wooden clubs. Iron weapons were forbidden. The bull was then roasted and eaten, washed down with plenty of strong drink, for St Martin was also patron saint of wine growers and protector of the inebriated.

The legend behind the bull running, which was probably derived from a pre-Christian custom, was that St Martin had encountered a wild cow possessed by the devil which he had exorcized. Of course, it is likely that this tale was created to explain why it was auspicious to begin the slaughter of livestock on this day. Pigs were also butchered and gifts of sausages and black puddings at Martinmas were known as ‘pig cheer’. Fixing a seasonal activity like ploughing, sowing or slaughter to a well-known saints’ day ensured the vital task was blessed and protected by that saint. It also helped to co-ordinate community life, so that everyone in village knew exactly when it would begin, and equipment could be made ready.

But the very act of shedding blood was an important aspect of the festival. In Ireland it was said that ‘if blood is not drawn on Martinmas eve, the blood that is shed will be your own.’ In Scotland and Ireland, a fowl or goose had its neck cut on Martinmas eve and was allowed to bleed out. Its blood was daubed on the four corners of the house, or on lintels, doorsteps or doors, and was sometimes put on the foreheads of children, with the words, ‘I am killing this in honour of St Martin, and that he might keep trouble away from the house for the year.' 

Right up to the end of 19th century there are reports of this being done to ward off the spirits of the dead who couldn’t find rest. If the family had no animal, someone would cut their own finger instead. A piece of cloth was also dipped Martinmas blood, dried and used in the coming year to press on the body to relieve pain while a prayer or charm was recited.

There are several different versions of how St Martin met his death which in the Middle Ages gave rise to a number of superstitions connected with the festival. In one version, the saint plunged into a millpond and was killed by the turning waterwheel, and for many centuries it was considered unlucky to carry out any work that involved turning or grinding on this day. This meant people didn’t grind flour, spin wool or put to sea to fish because the boat would have to turn to come back. 

An account published in 1867, tells of some Wexford fishmen who spotted a great shoal of herring offshore on St Martin’s Eve and foolishly put to sea. The ghostly figure of St Martin rose from the waves and pointed thrice to the shore, before sinking again. Two boats heeded the saint’s warning, cut their nests loose and returned immediately. The others continued to haul in the huge catch, but a violent storm sprang up, their boats overturned and 70 men drowned.
'The Fishing Boat' by Gustave Courbet, 1865

One of St Martin’s symbols is a goose, because it was believed he was tricked into becoming bishop and tried to escape this office by hiding in a barn, but a honking goose gave him away. So, a goose was traditionally eaten at his feast, and the wishbone kept. In 1455, the physician, Johannes Hartlieb, wrote -
'When the goose has been eaten on St Martin's Day the oldest and wisest keeps the breast-bone and, allowing it to dry until the morning, examines it all around, in front, behind and in the middle. Thereby they divine whether the winter will be severe or mild, dry or wet, and are so confident in their prediction that they will wager their goods and chattels on its accuracy.’
On the Aran Islands, west of Ireland, there was a legend that St Martin begged for food at the door of a woman who was so poor she had nothing to give him, so she sacrificed her child and boiled the infant to provide meat. But after he left, the child was found miraculously asleep in its crib. Families on the islands used to slaughter an animal on Martinmas in memory of this miracle, and anyone who came begging at their doors on St Martin’s Day was offered roast fowl or goose.
St Martin and a goose on 
St Martin Busskirch in Jona, Obersee, 
Switzerland. Photographer: Roland zh


In Germany and Holland, the festival had been traditionally celebrated with bonfires on Martinmas Eve and with lantern parades led by ‘St Martin’ on horseback. But the Reformation in 16th century meant that in Protestant countries, Catholic saints could no longer be celebrated. But recognising they could not supress such a popular festival, the ‘Martin’ who was celebrated on ‘Martin’s Day’ became instead, Martin Luther, the German founder of the Protestantism who was born on November 10, 1483 and, according to legend, was baptized on the 11th November.

The final twist in this blood-drenched festival was that the 11th November 1918, was the date chosen for the guns to fall silent at the end of World War I – the day dedicated to the saint who was a solider in the mighty Roman army and who laid down his weapons, declaring he would fight no more.
Lantern Parade, St Martin's Day 2016
Huisberden, Germany
Photographer: Pieter Delicoat






Weaving Women's Stories

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by Caroline Lawrence
I was going to post a different blog but have just been listening to a brilliant podcast for Classics Confidential. It was specially produced in honour of the Being Human Festival and in particular two events centred around ancient weaving: a poetry performance next Friday 16 November and a hands-on weaving workshop on Saturday 17 November 2018


Jessica Hughes (left) the host of Classics Confidential starts out by interviewing Dr Emma Bridges (Institute of Classical Studies) who talks about the links we still make between weaving and storytelling in phrases such as ‘spinning a yarn’ and ‘weaving a tale’. The word texta, woven, gives us the word text. The ancient sources also used metaphors of weaving. For example, Odysseus ‘weaves a scheme’ in Homer’s Odyssey

Dr Ursula Rothe from the Open University talks about the different fabrics they used: wool, linen, cotton and silk, which was a very expensive (even decadent) prestige product. Camel and goat hair were used for bags and sacks and we know of felt workshops in Pompeii. 


Replica loom at Fishbourne Roman Villa
Because textiles were handmade – involving hundreds of thousands of hours of work – they were precious in both senses of the word. For many poor people their clothing would be the most expensive things they owned. This is why we have so many accounts of textiles being stolen, disappearing from baths and even being handed down in wills. (Many curse tablets are directed against the person or persons who stole a cloak, because this often served as a blanket as well as an article of clothing and could mean the difference between life and death.) 

Professor Mary Harlow is a Roman historian who specialises in textile production. Her own warp-weighted loom will be one of the focal points of the Being Human Weaving Women’s Storiesperformance and activity day. Mary started out dutifully researching all the literary and visual sources but it wasn’t until she went to Denmark to work at the Centre for Textile Research that she had a revelation about ancient textiles. ‘I had to rethink the whole process from the beginning,’ she says. ‘And in so doing I’ve also become a practitioner. I’m an avid hand-spinner and addicted to natural plant dyes… And most recently I’ve begun to learn to weave on a warp-weighted loom.’ She goes on to say that she has really begun to realise that the idea of the finished garment must have already been in someone’s head, because every stage is geared to the specific product. 


‘Now I’ve started weaving,’ adds Mary, ‘the other thing I have begun to understand is the amount of inherent mathematics it takes to set up a loom…’ 

Almost all the beautiful ancient textiles we have are woven rather than embroidered. This requires a huge amount of skill. When Mary considered the amount of mathematics involved, it led her to see the ancient texts in another way. ‘Philosophers use odds and evens to talk about the way the cosmos is developed… just like a warp-weighted loom.’ 


Mary mentions a friend of hers, the scholar Magdalena Ormond, who is doing research on the sound a loom makes and the way the cadences of Ovid’s poetry possibly imitate this sound in some way. 

Textile production was embedded in the ancient world. Everybody knew something about it and could use that knowledge. It would have been built in to everybody’s experience. ‘It’s a shame textile production is still not considered one of the very big themes of ancient history,’ concludes Mary, ‘because it feeds in to so much more.’ 

There are many other great revelations in the podcast. 


• Emma Bridges (again) shows how male poets like Homer and Ovid portray women who weave and also how the story of Penelope has been retold in more modern times. Emma points out that the loom provides a medium for women to express themselves when they are repeatedly silenced by men, e.g. the way Penelope is silenced by Telemachus in the Odyssey. Circe and Calypso both sing at the loom but Penelope is silent. So is Philomela, who is raped and then silenced by her abuser. Ovid has her ‘tell’ her story in her weaving. 

Emma talks about Waterhouse’s 1912 painting of Penelope and her suitors and also an extraordinary art installation by Brazilian artist Tatiana Blass called Penelope

• Ellie Mackin Roberts (Royal Holloway, University of London) talks about the arrephorroi (the group of very young girls who lived on the acropolis for a year and wove a peplos for Athena’s statue) and what their sensory experience would have been. For example these girls of perhaps seven or eight might have been asked to card the wool. This would have made their hands greasy with lanolin this would have made washing at the end of the day a different experience than usual. 


• Ben Ferris (Sydney Film School) talks about his 2009 feature film, Penelope, a fantastical treatment of Homer's tale of Penelope, depicting her psychological struggle as she waits twenty years for her husband to return from the Trojan War. 

• Anna Fisk (University of Glasgow) is a knitting practitioner and academic researcher in contemporary craft practices and implicit religion. One of her observations is that some women find knitting almost like entering into a prayerful state.

To hear the whole podcast either subscribe to Classics Confidential or listen on SoundCloud HERE

A performance of women reading original poetry inspired by weaving will take place on Friday 16 November 2018 and on the following Saturday there will be weaving workshops.  The afternoon session is sold-out but the morning drop in is free. 
I don’t usually emerge from my writer’s lair on dark winter nights but I’m making an exception for this and I am sure it will be worth it. I hope to see you there! 

100 Armistice Days - Day 98 - Joan Lennon

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The Armistice 100 Days project is the result of a collaboration between the Imperial War Museums and the writers' collective 26 to commemorate the lives of 100 people who experienced World War I.  One hundred writers wrote a 100 word piece (a centena) in which the first and last three words are the same, and a 500 word creation story about the research behind the writing.  Click here to see this moving display of photographs, paintings, artefacts, writing and research.  Each story is vivid, heart-warming, heart-breaking, poignant, inspiring.  Each takes an individual by the hand and draws them close to us now.

My centena is called "Except ..." and was inspired by my grandfather, James Mortimer Clark, who was a doctor in the Canadian Army Medical Corps, before going to China as a medical missionary, where he died in 1925.  




Dr James Mortimer Clark 
Canadian Army Medical Corp


The repeating words I chose were "not the end" and the poem begins like this - 


Not the end – the beginning!


the beginning

of the end

                         of the World War wedge

all those boys’ broken bodies

driven between

              this Ontario farmboy

and his mission field 


the shout that drowned out the call would be stilled

the start and the end would be stitched back together



except … 


You can visit the page for Day 98 here.

The project has been running since 5th August, and is coming to an end in two days.  It was a privilege to be part of it.



(The 10th is usually Michelle Lovric's slot, but she kindly swapped with me this month.  You can find her excellent post Infamy Again on the 5th of November, here.)

(There is a selection of centenas stunningly performed by their writers on YouTube here.  And a beautiful book has been produced which is available from Just Giving (profits to go to the charity War Child).)

(I did a photo post for The History Girls back in 2013 about my mum in China before her father died called, unimaginatively, China and My Mum.)



Joan Lennon's website.
Joan Lennon's blog.

Nurses - the forgotten heroes of the First World War

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[The text below is taken from my book, Nurses of Australia:the Illustrated Story: NLA publishing, 2018), which is now in all good bookshops.]

     Over the course of the First World War, more than 2,286 members of the Australian Army Nursing Service (which included nurses, masseuses, some ward assistants and one bacteriologist) served overseas on active service. (It was a huge number given that in 1914 there were only 4,200 trained general nurses registered with Australian nursing associations.)
     Only fully trained nurses were eligible to enlist in the AANS. They had to furnish references recommending them for military service, pass a medical examination and submit to the same military regulations as the average military officer.
     Hundreds more Australian nurses who wished to serve but had not been accepted into the AANS joined the British nursing services, either the Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service Reserve (QAIMNSR) or the Territorial Force Nursing Service. Other Australian nurses volunteered to serve with organisations such as the Red Cross, French Flag Nursing Corps, the Australian Voluntary Hospital, Colonial Nursing Service, or St John Ambulance.
     The AANS nurses cared for Australian and allied servicemen in almost every theatre of war during the long four years of war. They also served in hospital ships off the coast of Turkey and in field and general hospitals and Casualty Clearing Stations in countries as diverse as Egypt, Palestine, Greece, India, France, Belgium, and Germany. Australian nurses staffed British and French hospitals and assisted the British, French, Canadian, Indian and South African medical services. 
     During the War, 388 Australian nursing sisters were decorated, with 42 wining military nursing’s greatest honour, the Royal Red Cross. Eight were awarded the Military Medal, and 23 received decorations from the Governments of allied countries.
     The First World War took place prior to antibiotics. Surgery was often performed in the difficult and septic conditions of a Casualty Clearing Hospital and doctors left post-operative treatment almost entirely to nurses. 
     A patient’s recovery, although due in part to a patient’s own powers of resistance and recuperation, was often attributable to the nursing care he received. Careful nursing prevented the onset of secondary pneumonia or further infection which could be fatal, and constant observation allowed the nurse to act quickly to prevent dehydration and excessive blood loss.
     British nurses may have regarded their colonial colleagues with some disdain, refusing to work with them unless ‘fully qualified’, but Australian trained nurses knew they had much to offer. The willingness of Australian nurses to take on whatever type of nursing work presented itself made them highly prized in Casualty Clearing Stations on the front line, and for theatre work. Australian nurses were particularly proud of their ability to act independently when required, unlike the British nurses who were used to a more rigid nursing hierarchy. And the Australian nurses soon needed to use all their ingenuity and pluck.
     Twenty-four AANS sisters embarked on active service overseas with the first big convoy of 44 troop ships on 20 October, 1914. They arrived in Egypt in December 1914 and set up two general hospitals.
     No. 1 Australian General Hospital (AGH), under Matron Bell, (left) was established at the Heliopolis Palace Hotel, a magnificent building, luxuriously furnished, but wholly unsuitable for a hospital. 
     No. 2 AGH, under Matron Gould, took over Mena House (right), also a former luxurious hotel but smaller than the Heliopolis Palace. It may have had a spectacular view of the Pyramids, but it was just as unsuitable for a hospital. 
     The nurses’ home in Cairo was in a former Egyptian harem, ‘a queer, funny old home . . . with barred windows, and inside a huge stone wall twenty feet high.’ (Anne Donnell, Letters of an Army Sister, p.80) Inside the walls was a garden with a pool where the ladies of the harem used to wash their feet. 
     In their early days in Egypt, before the Gallipoli campaign, the Australian nurses made time to enjoy themselves, despite the heat. A nurse who had seen active service in Egypt later recalled that she and her colleagues ‘used to go for donkey rides in the evening and wore divided skirts something like our uniforms. My donkey was called Whisky Straight.’ (Sun, Monday 25 April 1938, p. 9) 
     The Australian nursing sisters visited friends, shopped and took trips to the Pyramids and the Sphinx. A perennial problem, however, was shortage of money, as the Army was notoriously lax about paying its staff. 
     Everything changed after April 1915, when the wounded began pouring in from Gallipoli. In May, No.2 AGH took over another Cairo hotel, the Ghezireh Palace and No.1 AGH had expanded to 3,500 beds. The El Hayat hotel at Helouan, twelve miles from Cairo, became a Convalescent Camp with 1,000 beds. But the casualties kept coming.
     Auxiliary hospitals were established in Cairo and Heliopolis in whatever large buildings were available. Luna Park in Cairo became an Auxiliary Hospital. It had fifteen nurses, and by 16 May it held 1,620 patients, 700 of whom were accommodated on the skating rink (as in the photo to the left ). The Atelier Auxiliary Hospital was a former furniture factory that had been fitted out to take 500 beds.
     And still the Gallipoli wounded poured in. Tent hospitals were opened in tennis courts and sporting grounds. Hotels, the Aerodrome, the Casino, the Cairo Sporting Club, and Prince Ibrahim Khalim’s Palace all became Australian hospitals. By 10 June 1915, almost 8,000 patients had been treated.
     Tent hospitals were especially troublesome. In a tent, ‘nursing the room’ – making sure that the patients’ environment was safe, well ventilated and free from dust and infection control was in place – was impossible, as is clear from the photo right.
Australian nurses often found Army regulations hard to stomach, especially those relating to uniforms.
     The heat in Egypt was almost intolerable (in a letter of 19 June 1915, Olive Haynes (below) mentioned that it was 122 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade (50 degrees Celsius)), and yet the nurses were expected to wear their long and heavy grey serge frocks with the thick red woollen cape over their shoulders. Haynes complained in a letter to her mother: 
‘Matron has a fit when she sees us without our capes. Everything military is quite mad and unreasonable; they can’t see a foot ahead of their noses for red tape.’ In the same letter Haynes took comfort in the news that the nurses were getting ‘new thin red capes – muslin collars and short sleeves with turn-back cuffs – will be much cooler.’(Letter Olive Haynes to her mother, 28 May 1915)
     Everyone in the Egyptian hospitals, whether nurses, doctors or wounded soldiers, suffered cruelly from the heat. Haynes wrote that the best part of being on night duty was being able to take her cape off, roll up her sleeves and turn her collar in. She was defiant: ‘I don’t mind if 40 Drs. or officers come along.’ (Letter Olive Haynes to ‘Mim’ 19 June 1915)
     This Australian tendency to independence became a necessity, as the nurses were pitched headlong into situations that no amount of training could have prepared them for. Work on casualty ships, in particular, required a great deal of competence, ingenuity and independent thinking. The photo right shows wounded men from Gallipoli arriving at a hospital ship. 
     From April 1915 these vessels would collect the wounded from Gallipoli and transport them to hospitals on nearby islands. Conditions on the overcrowded ships were horrific. Patients who could not be fitted below decks were treated on the open rolling deck, lying side-by-side on stretchers. On the Gascon, Hilda Samsing wrote of performing her duties as ‘stray bullets pattered on board like rain drops after a shower’, and she graphically described her experiences:
The noise from the shore was most appalling. The incessant booming of the guns with the crackle of machine guns and rifles playing their accompaniment, made us wonder if the Anzac Hill was on a sound foundation. As for the poor old ship, it shook nearly all the paint off her sides, and she has worn a battered look ever since! At 7 a.m. our work began in earnest, and what a day it was! Men who could walk or hobble came up the gangway, and the derrick swung the cradle, with stretcher cases, without stopping, till at 4 p.m. every cot was full, and not a yard of deck space was left to place another man on. And such wounds, and such tired hungry men. We took 700 on board, and when you think they all had to be fed, the 400 cot cases washed, and all those dressings done, fractures set, serious cases operated on, and every man’s name and regimental details entered up in the 24 hours, you will realize a little what our work was like. (Letter Samsing to Watson, undated, reprinted in The Register, 24 November, 1915 p.9)

     In July 1915, Matron Grace Wilson and a contingent of 96 nurses were sent from Australia to Lemnos, a Greek island about 40 miles from the Dardanelles that had become an important army base. It was from Lemnos’ vast, ship-filled harbour at Mudros that troops and supplies were sent across to the Gallipoli beaches.
     Wilson and her nurses were instructed to set up No.3 AGH on the island’s stony, dusty hillside, but they were deposited on Lemnos before their hospital equipment. The photo left shows them arriving on the bare hillside.
     The August offensive on Gallipoli was in full swing and only one or two tents had been hoisted before the first load of two hundred wounded from Gallipoli arrived. 
     The injured men were laid on the ground and the tents that were to serve as wards were pulled up around them as the nurses attended to their wounds. The nurses simply had to make the best of things. When they ran out of bandages, they tore up their petticoats and anything else that they could find to serve the purpose. And, as is clear from the photo right, they had to sleep rough until the tents and equipment arrived.
     There were no streams or springs on Lemnos. The Greek villages that were located in the valleys had wells, but these could not be used for fear of typhoid. This meant that for the first few weeks the nurses were allocated only one small bottle of water a day to serve for drinking and washing purposes. Eventually some of the officers managed to fit up a water distiller. Although there was now enough water to drink, they never had enough for a luxury such as a bath. Nor was there was any electricity in the camp. They used hurricane lamps or candles in their tents, or they sat in the dark.
     Provisions were short and often the nurses went hungry. They subsisted for the most part of bully beef, rice and onions and army biscuits, although sometimes the nurses bought olives and dried fruit and coarse brown bread from the Greek villages. The photo left is of the tent hospital on Lemnos.
     In the blazing summer heat the nurses could not cool off with a swim in the harbour, for fear of contracting dysentery. When winter brought bitter frosts Matron Wilson had to insist that the Army issue them with warm tunics, trousers and boots. Eventually they discarded formal uniforms to wear men’s woollen socks, gum boots and sheep skin coats.

     Matron Wilson referred to some of the problems faced by her Lemnos nurses in a newspaper article in 1931:
In the summer months it was terrifically hot, and the sun beat pitilessly down on our tents, but by December it was bitterly cold, and what had been only dust and stones before became a veritable sea of mud. We always had to go about our work in heavy gum boots. Night after night, when we were safely tucked in bed, our tents would be torn down by the wind and blown half way across the island. And always, in the whole six months we were there, there was such shortage of oil for our lamps and lanterns that as soon as the nurses had done their work in the wards they had to turn out the lights and sit in darkness. (Inverell Times, Friday 15 May 1931, page 6)
     The nurses kept up a brave front for the wounded men, but privately they sometimes despaired, as Anne Donnell described in one of her letters home:

November 10th.

Today in the lines I passed a dear little dog, stopped played with him, then it suddenly dawned on me what a changed life we are living, and growing accustomed to. No little children to love, no trees, no flowers, no pets, no shops, nothing dainty or nice, practically no fruit or vegetables, butter and eggs once in a month, twice at most. Please don’t infer from this that I am complaining, far from it, and we have much to be thankful for, but how we wish that we could give our serious cases the very best of food and delicacies. Of course it’s only natural that we would wish, for our health’s sake, to have some nourishing food. I do have them too in my dreams at night, when I visit the most beautiful fruit gardens and pick the sweetest flowers while little children play around; don’t smile, for it’s quite true. (Anne Donnell, Letters of an Army Sister, pp.63-4)

     And yet, when Anne Donnell left Lemnos in January 1916 she wrote that she would miss ‘the unconventional freedom and the unique experiences we had there.’ (Anne Donnell, Letters of an Army Sister, p.76.)
     In his official history of the Australian Army Medical Service, Butler said of the Lemnos nurses:
It is clear, however, that the training in the nursing profession, severe beyond most in its standard of toil, self-discipline and resource in compelling order out of chaos, enabled these trained women to adapt themselves to circumstances, bend to clearly recognised ends such means as could be found, and in a short time obtain a comparative mastery of the situation. (Butler, Official History of the Australian Army Medical Services in the War of 1914-1918, Vol.1, p.338)

     In April 1916 No.1 and No.2 AGHs were transferred from Egypt to France (to Rouen in Normandy and Wimmereux in Boulogne in respectively). After the evacuation of the Gallipoli Peninsula No.3 AGH was transferred first to Cairo then to England and later to Abbeville in France. It was at No.3 AGH that a team including Sister F.E. Williams (a bacteriologist) continued valuable research they had commenced on Lemnos looking into the aetiology of dysentery.
     After the heat of the Egyptian desert the nurses thoroughly appreciated the beautiful French spring. But the rain was soon a curse in the tent hospitals. The flapping and leaky tent sides meant that their patients were drenched; often beds were so wet the nurses refused to put men into them. Sometimes there was no flooring under the tents, not even a groundsheet, and the nurses walked through mud to see to patients as beds sank into the ground.


Our hospital consists of tents. My ward is a big tent with about a hundred beds, all surgical cases, and it is hard going every minute one is on duty. The weather has been dreadful. We have had the second Deluge, I think. Anyhow, the whole place is a quagmire, and we have to slosh through mud and water. My ‘uniform’ consists of a very abbreviated skirt, rubber boots tied round at the knees, a sou’-wester jacket and hat. In this rig the boys call me the ‘Little Skipper.’ Other times I’m ‘Little Ausie!’ We have to be ready to go out in the pouring rain, while the mud is awful. I sleep in a tent which leaks badly, so I have to put an oilskin right over my stretcher and put the clothes I want to keep dry when I go on duty under the same oilskin. There is an anti-aircraft gun stationed about 50 yards from my sleeping tent, and I had just dropped off for a few hours' sleep the other day when it started. By the time I got out the enemy plane, was almost overhead. Mr first thought was for my helpless patients in the ward close by, but the bombs fortunately dropped clear. This was my third-air raid, and I must confess I’m not fond of them. (Letter from unidentified Australian nurse, reprinted in the Mail, 20 October 1917, p.6)

     Then came winter. Housed in tents or lightly built huts, the nurses suffered terribly in one of the coldest winters on record in France. Bed sheets froze if a hot water bottle burst. The nurses took their boots into bed with them so that they would be wearable in the morning. Ink and medicine froze and they even had to melt the ice in basins to wash patients.
   The general hospitals were set up just in time to receive Australian casualties from the major battles of the Western Front: Fromelles, Somme, Ypres, Amiens, Poperinghe. The hospitals were within hearing, and often range, of the shells. Between April and December 1916 the three Australian general hospitals alone had eighty-seven thousand casualties. Their patients came directly from the Casualty Clearing Stations near the front line. Nursing staff who had thought (correctly) that Gallipoli was a nightmare came to realise that at least it was short. Then, after three and a half hellish years nursing on the Western Front, just as the fighting slackened closer to the Armistice in November 1918, they faced another, deadly enemy. The influenza epidemic had begun.
Nurses who worked in the Casualty Clearing Stations such as that in the photo left were closest to the front line, and conditions were difficult and dangerous. During often nightly bombing raids, the nurses would sit in the dark fields with their tin hats and gas masks on as bombs fell nearby and anti-aircraft shells whistled over their heads. Then they returned to the tents that served as their bedrooms to find that their clothes had been shredded by shrapnel. 
     And always, there were wounded soldiers to be treated. Sometimes, in one room of a Casualty Clearing Station as many as ten operations would be going on while another fifty men lay waiting at the door for their turn. Members of the surgical teams, including the nurses, might operate for 24 hours straight, stopping only for food. 
     In a letter of 1 May 1918, written after she had been invalided out with nervous fatigue, Anne Donnell described the work of No.48 British CCS in France, near Amiens.
You will all know that the C.C.S. Hospitals are the nearest to the front lines. The wounded first pass through the field dressing stations and then usually come by ambulance to the C.C.S, and then close to the C.C.S is a rail head, from which the hospital trains take the patients down to the various bases. It is usual for two C.C.S.’s to be close together and work in conjunction with the other. Our next door neighbour was 21 C.C.S., and we received the patients alternately, perhaps every two hours, or four, or twelve, just according to how fast we were admitting or how many. . . . One thing, I was free to use my own discretion in giving morphia or stimulants, and you may be sure I was ever ready with either, when I thought it the least bit necessary. (Anne Donnell, Letters of an Army Sister, pp.212, 214.)
     Anne Donnell was the only Australian nurse at No.48 British CCS and missed her compatriots. Sometimes, just chatting to a fellow countryman was enough to lift the spirits:

I think it was the 2nd December when in the morning the night sister greeted me with, ‘Sister, I’ve got an Australian here for you.’ . . . He suffered very much pain and shock and I kept him all day, and made myself snatch a minute now and then for a little chat. He seemed pleased to have met an Australian Sister and vice versa. I was delighted and proud of my Australian. (Anne Donnell, Letters of an Army Sister, pp.218-9)
     Most AANS nurses worked in one of the big general hospitals or auxiliary hospitals. General hospitals were the largest medical units, and they were much larger than the Australian general hospitals that the nurses were used to. Although the authorised bed limit for the general military hospital was 520 beds, very soon most had doubled this, or more. 
     Every type of surgical and nursing work took place in these large and crowded hospitals, and the Australian nurses needed to take on increased responsibilities. In wartime conditions nurses also had to master the use of equipment that had formerly been used only by doctors. Often they did so with no formal training, such as this Red Cross nurse in the photo left who administers anaesthetic, which would never have occurred when she was a nurse in Australia.      
     And it was not just nursing care that they provided. Nurses were expected always to be cheerful and feminine and to give comfort to the wounded. They regularly took on the task of writing home to soldiers’ families to inform them of their patients’ progress. Or they would write to let a loved one know as gently as possible the circumstances of a soldier’s death. 
     Sometimes, however, maintaining a cheerful face was difficult:
I only know that I am not a mere nurse, but represent to them for the time being their dearest ones, and many a time I find myself going to the marquee flap to hide the tears that will gather, and ask for strength to control a distorted face and go back. (Anne Donnell, Letters of an Army Sister, p.216.) 
     Lonely patients were often singled out for extra care. In June 1917, Anne Donnell was transferred to the British Hospital at Le Tréport, which was dealing with the masses of wounded from Bullecourt and Vimy Ridge. It was so close to England that the families of many seriously wounded patients were able to come over to visit them or take them home. Anne pitied a young man whose family had not yet arrived. 
There was no time to special, one just did what one could for each, and then it was, I thought, a case of the survival of the fittest. . . . But this laddie in the corner, I thought, shall have some special care, and Matron brought him some lovely oranges that he fancied, so I quietly sat down and fed him and told him he would be mine until his mother came. He gave me the loveliest smile as he replied, ‘and I’ll make you my special,’ but quickly added, ‘You must forgive me, Sister, I wouldn’t have said that under ordinary circumstances.’ Next morning when I came on duty, his bed was empty. . . . His parents arrived – too late to see him, but I was so thankful to be able to give them his last message of love. (Anne Donnell, Letters of an Army Sister, p.170) 
     To give some hint of how difficult it was to ‘special’ one young soldier at that time, Donnell reported that in ten weeks over 12,000 patients went through that hospital.

     The Australian nurses found that the Armistice of November 1918 brought mixed feelings. As Anne Donnell wrote:
There is a certain amount of quiet excitement with most of us. Some are overjoyed and I wish I could feel as they do, but I am terribly depressed. … I think of the gladness, then follows the sadness, and in the gladness I am saddest because I think of those who have lost, the mothers at home whose sunny boys are not going back to make them glad. (Anne Donnell, Letters of an Army Sister, pp.272-3) 
     No AANS nurses lost their lives due to enemy action in the First World War, but 21 died due to illness and disease: three in Egypt, four in India, two in France, three in England, one in Salonika, eight in Australia. Four Australian nurses who enlisted in the QAIMS also died on service. But many nurses never really recovered from the strain of those years and from what they had seen and experienced. 
     The status of nurses within the general Australian population – already high before the war – increased as soldiers returned full of praise for the nurses who had treated them or their mates. On Anzac day, nurses were allowed the privilege of marching beside the soldiers.
     And yet, the role played by Australian nurses in the war soon faded from memory. Nurses were little mentioned in the official war histories and in peacetime many nurses were reluctant to bring attention to themselves and what they had achieved, preferring to stand in the shadow of the Anzacs.
     Or perhaps they did not want to remember what horrors they had seen and experienced in those four years. As one newspaper article from 1931 put it:

The epic story of the part that the army nurses played in the Great War can never be told in full — her own reticence is in itself an effective barrier — and it is a story that has been largely overshadowed by exploits more spectacular. (Inverell Times, Friday 15 May 1931, page 6)
     The exploits of the Australian Diggers at Gallipoli, Fromelles, Ypres, Passchendaele, Mons, Poizieres and the other famous battles may well have been more spectacular than those of the ‘girls in grey’, but they were certainly no more heroic.







Remembering all the Harrys

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Private Harry Reynolds died in France on 29 October 1914, aged 25. A careerist soldier, his service was undistinguished. He appears in the army records only when he lost his equipment and slipped cigarettes to prisoners he was supposed to be guarding.


Harry, who joined up at the age of 14, was 4ft 11, with defective eyes. This short, unremarkable soldier left no family behind. There is no grave for Harry.


I found his story as part of a fantastic community history project in Herne Hill, the leafy corner of South London in which I live. The Herne Hill Society, in partnership with The Charter School and local volunteers, undertook a project to map the men and women connected to Herne Hill who were killed in World War 1. The team believe that as many as 700 local residents were killed. On my street alone, there were five telegrams delivered, five families left bereft.


This is their website and I urge you to explore it: www.memorial.hernehillsociety.org.uk/.


The team has unearthed many heart-breaking stories, including a family which lost its three sons. But somehow, Harry’s story is the one that has lingered. As historical writers, the lives we focus on tend to be the ones that are significant: either because they are remarkable, or they are important, or they fit the narrative pattern we’re seeking to impose.


Harry’s story brings no clarity to the greater picture. It adds nothing but a single digit to an unbelievably large number. The mud of France cracked open, swallowed Harry, and sealed again. 

Most of us will be invisible to posterity and to be troubled by that lack of significance is pompous and hubristic. But most of us will be mourned by someone. Perhaps Harry had friends in the army who missed him. Perhaps poor, short, squinty Harry had a girl at home.


As the veterans of the World Wars die of old age, we need new ways to remember the Harrys. The map that this history project has created is hugely powerful. Children, in particular, need specific stories of flesh and blood people, not numbers, to force them to empathy. My older children were fascinated and appalled by the stories of the fallen soldiers who had lived on our road. The geographic specificity gave them a sense of connection and helped them really think about the lives, and deaths, of these men. 

We talk of bringing history alive, in fiction and non-fiction. To do that demands an emphasis on the commonality of human experience even as we mine the past for instances of difference and uniqueness.


But London, much as I love it, is a strange and hotchpotch place which constantly erodes a sense of commonality. People pass through, neighbours fail to connect. Most of us are incomers to our London villages. Most of us, too, are not church-goers. We don’t have that sense of belonging to a place that can make Remembrance Sunday so unbearably moving: I remember, in particular, being in a village church in Norfolk for one Remembrance Sunday service, and the surnames of the fallen were the names on the graves and, doubtless, in the records of marriages and baptisms.


We Londoners live, secluded in our overpriced houses, and disconnected to our past. We are ancestor-less. 

I was thinking about this, as I watched a friend’s ten year old find the story of a man who grew up in the house next door to her: Lieutenant John Hood. John was born in Herne Hill, and baptised in the church attached to my kids' old school. He studied at Cambridge, and was beginning a career as a teacher, before enlisting. He joined the 29th Siege Battery in France in November 1916 and for the next two years fought in Belgium and France. John Hood survived the German guns, but caught influenza on 11 November 1918, and died three days later in France.


Image result for st paul's church herne hill
An early image of the church where John Hood was baptised.

One hundred years after John Hood caught influenza, the team behind the Memorial project organised a two minute silence in the centre of Herne Hill during the usually busy Sunday market. We stood amid the veg-sellers and the artisan butchers, the smell drifting past from the cheese stall; the fat from the burgers spitting and the steam rising from the giant vat of tartiflette. Kids and dogs and hungover youngsters clutching coffees.  All the busyness of a London Sunday.  Then a teenager from The Charter School played The Last Post, and we all fell still.


Herne Hill's town crier announcing the silence

There is a particular intensity to a silence that falls on a busy London street. I found it deeply moving - all these decent, unremarkable strangers standing together. It gave me a much needed dose of optimism. I have been dispirited of late by the mood music of public life, and its combative, fearful timbre. We seem to be more frightened than I can remember, more growlingly convinced of the coming apocalypse. Frightened people who feel powerless find anger easy.


We have different visions of the peril: for some it is Trump and Brexit, and the rise of the right; for others Corbyn and a resurgent Marxism. Then there’s the climate. The decline of the US and the rise of a more brutal Chinese hegemony. The coming of artificial intelligence. Putin gurning at Europe’s growing chaos. The likelihood that future generations will, at best, be poorer than us; at worst, face horrors that we cannot imagine. There’s a competitive edge to the catastrophising – my vision is more true and more terrifying than yours. We are strangers, gawping at a pick ‘n mix of dystopian futures.


I keep telling myself that there is an impulse in humans to anticipate an imminent Armageddon. True, yesterday’s silence reminded me that, sometimes, we are right and the Horsemen do sweep in and scythe us down. But it also reminded me that within all the tremulous cacophony of modern British life, there can also exist two minutes of meaningful silence.


@tonisenior 
antoniasenior.com


Jersey Occupation Food in #WW2 by Deborah Swift

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German soldiers on British soil
I've recently been working on a novella for a collection of stories set in WW2. My book is set on Jersey in the Channel Islands. Those of you who have read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (or seen the film) will know about the food shortages on Guernsey during the German occupation. All the Channel Islands suffered under the occupation, not just Guernsey.  The geographical position of Jersey meant the Germans saw it as an ideal place of fortification before their planned invasion of England.



When the Germans invaded The Channel Islands, Jersey was cut off from English food supplies, and with thousands more hungry Germans on the island, the finding of enough food became a priority. Potatoes and swedes were a staple, but food was so scarce in the Channel Islands that every last morsel of the potato was eaten, including the peel. By the Summer of 1941, the ration of meat was four ounces per person per fortnight. Bread was scarce, and soon become a rough, hard, mouthful, often adulterated with bran, chaff or sawdust. The British 'cuppa' was made with tea recycled by drying out the leaves.

'The shops were empty, you couldn't buy anything. If you went into town, everyone was talking about food.'
Dorothy Blackwell - farmer's daughter Jersey

Finding and preparing food mostly fell to the women, and was enormously time-consuming. On an island as small as Jersey, the beaches were a source of food, though the beaches were mined by the occupying forces, so it was a dangerous mission to collect mussels or crabs. Seaweed, and moss were avidly collected, and used as vegetables or to make setting agents for preserves or blancmange.

Sugar was not available, so islanders made syrup from sugar beet. Coffee substitute was made from collecting and drying dandelions or parnsips. In harvest time, corn was gleaned grain by grain from any missed by the Germans, and painstakingly ground in home mills originally intended for coffee or spices. Breeding rabbits for the pot, and catching sparrows from hedgerows supplemented the diet with a little protein. Bird's eggs of any type were filched from nests.


Occupation Menu
According to the book The Model Occupation by Madeleine Bunting - here is a typical day's diet on Jersey during 1943:

Breakfast
'Grape nuts' made from mangel-wurzel with drop of rationed milk
Bramble-leaf tea
Bread with smear of cocoa substitute mixed with sago

Lunch
Boiled potatoes, peas, swede or cabbage
Pudding made of baked breadcrumbs & milk thickened with maize meal.

Tea
Bread & 'butter'
Bramble-leaf tea

Supper
Vegetable soup
Stewed potatoes & peas

Living in Fear
Thousands of islanders traded on the Black Market, or stole from the Germans to survive. Farmers were luckier, if thery could hide a pig or chickens, but those in towns suffered real hardships. In the face of German authority, islanders were powerless. One wrong word could lead to an appearance before the court and transportation to a French or German prison camp. Islanders witnessed the inhumane treatment of the slave workers brought over from occupied territories in order to build the German fortifications, and they feared the same treatment. Between 1940 and 1945, more than 300 islanders were taken from Jersey to concentration camps and prisons on the continent, for crimes committed against the German occupying forces.


Cooking
As the occupation progressed, cooking grew difficult, as finding enough fuel became harder. The island was denuded of trees by the German forces. Not only was there no wood for fuel, but nowhere to hide for any type of Resistance, and no hope of escape from such a large invasion force, without capture.

Communal kitchens were set up to minimize the amount of fuel needed for cooking, but to stay warm in the winter months it was still essential to search for kindling and wood, and anything else that could be burned. Everything had to be made - soap soon ran out, and toothpaste had to be made by mixing soot and chalk dust.

By Christmas 1944, electricity was no longer available. Candles became scarce, and winter evenings were spent in semi-darkness by the light of a tin can full of oil, with a bootlace for a wick. Lack of warmth and gnawing hunger made winter on Jersey a true misery.

All food supplies were cut off altogether after the D Day landings of 1944 when France was liberated. Starvation began to stare people in the face. Many succombed to illnesses associated with malnutrition. When the first Red Cross parcels arrived on 27 December 1944, people wept.

My new novella, The Occupation is based on the story of  a Jerseywoman who hid her Jewish friend from the Germans. The real life story can be found here.

You can order the book (in an anthology with another ten WW2 novellas) by clicking the picture.


Links:
Channel Island website: https://www.theislandwiki.org/index.php/Food_and_Rationing
Read more about the occupation of Jersey on the BBC
Or in The Telegraph

My website www.deborahswift.com

Dancing into the Modern Age: 150th Anniversary of the Meiji Restoration - by Lesley Downer

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November 1868: Emperor Meiji enters Edo in his phoenix palanquin
On November 26th 1868, a hundred and fifty years ago this month, a vast procession three and a half thousand strong filed through the massive gates of Edo Castle, with musicians stepping out in front. Right at the centre, born on the shoulders of forty or fifty close packed bearers, was the imperial palanquin, topped with a golden phoenix, carrying the sixteen year old Emperor Mutsuhito, whom we now know as Emperor Meiji. 
Emperor Meiji on his way to Edo

He had been wending his way across the country from his ancestral home in Kyoto for twenty days. Ten thousand people lined the streets to watch him pass. Shortly afterwards Edo was renamed Tō-kyō, ‘Eastern Capital’, and Edo Castle became the Imperial Palace. The event was dubbed the Meiji Restoration. A whole new era had begun. 

Shoguns had held power in Japan for many centuries. During those years the emperors had been like popes, spending their lives sequestered in the imperial palace in Kyoto and never leaving. For 250 years the country enjoyed uninterrupted peace. Japanese culture flourished - the world we see depicted in woodblock prints and on the stage of the kabuki theatre, the world of Basho’s haiku, Zen and much else. 

During most of those years Japan was closed to the west. The only westerners were 20 Dutch merchants who were allowed to live on a small island off Nagasaki. A Dutch ship came once a year and kept the Japanese up to speed with western science and developments. Thus the Japanese knew a fair bit about the west but the west knew very little about Japan. 
The rickshaw, invented in Japan in 1869


Then, in a single day - July 8th 1853 - everything changed. Fishermen in their boats at the mouth of Edo Bay saw four monstrous ships surging towards them, spouting steam. ‘As large as mountains,’ the fishermen reported, ‘moving as fast as birds.’ It was as if aliens had landed. But it was not Martians. It was Americans. It was Commodore Matthew Perry and his famous Black Ships. 

The fifteen years of turmoil that followed ended with the shogun being overthrown. The fifteenth and last shogun retired to his family lands and the teenage Emperor was borne in splendour into Edo, now Tokyo. And straight away things started to change. 

Ginza Bricktown 1874
Under the shoguns Edo had been an eastern Venice, lined with canals, with willow trees swaying along the banks. People went around by water, on foot, by palanquin or on horseback. There were no wheels for transporting people, only for goods. Wheels were quick to arrive. The rickshaw was invented almost instantaneously - in 1869. Soon rickshaws were everywhere, clattering through the streets, with the drivers shouting and threatening to mow people down if they didn’t leap out of the way fast enough. 

Tokyo mushroomed much as China is mushrooming now. New buildings shot up in the western mode, of brick and stone, not wood. One of the first was the Mitsui House, a splendid wedding cake-like confection, owned by the wealthy shopkeeping and money exchanging Mitsui family, soon to found a business and banking empire.

Then in April 1872 an area called the Ginza, full of furniture shops and second hand shops, mysteriously burnt down. No one was hurt, generating the suspicion that the fire had been set deliberately. The area was rebuilt entirely in sparkling new brick buildings and called Ginza Bricktown. The street was lined with all sorts of wonderful shops - a brand new newspaper office, a post office and a beef restaurant where people could dine on an exciting new dish - beef. In 1874 the Ginza was lit with Japan’s first gas lamps. 
First train at Shimbashi station by Shōsai Ikkei, circa 1870 -
donated to Wiki Commons by the Metropolitan Museum of Art
  Also in 1872 the first train line opened linking Tokyo and Yokohama, built under the direction of the Englishman Edmund Morell. He had succumbed to fever and died at the age of 30 the year before the railway opened and is buried in the Foreigners’ Cemetery in Yokohama. The emperor was there in all his regalia to open it. He was 20 by now. He soon set an example by changing to western clothing (a military uniform with lots of medals) for official duties. He also made the revolutionary announcement, ‘I shall eat beef.’ 

The empress followed suit. In 1873 she announced she was going to give up teeth blackening which was quite as shocking as if Meghan had suddenly announced she was going to blacken her teeth. Up till then adult women had always painted their teeth with lacquer to make them a lovely shiny black.
View of Benten Shrine: The Emperor and Empress cherry blossom viewing with their attendants
by Utagawa Hiroshige III 1881 - donated to Wiki Commons by the Metropolitan Museum of Art
In the cities at least everyone who could afford it was madly experimenting. Men rushed to the new-fangled barber shops - the first opened in 1869 - to have their oiled samurai topknots cut off and their hair cut in the latest style, the jangiri style, the cropped cut. People who had grown up wearing topknots and swords tried the bizarre new western fashions - trousers and Sherlock Holmes capes and incredibly uncomfortable leather boots.

Women were more conservative in their dress choices. Geisha being trendsetters were the first to try western clothes - bustles and bonnets. The very first person to wear high heeled shoes was a Nagasaki geisha in the 1880s.

Then in 1883 the Rokumeikan - the Hall of the Baying Stag - opened in central Tokyo right opposite the Imperial Palace. It was a rather flashy Italianate mansion of white painted brick with colonnaded verandas, set in landscaped gardens. There Japanese high society - gentlemen in frock coats, ladies in bustles, bows, corset and bonnets - dined on French food cooked by a French chef, using knives and forks, played billiards, had charity bazaars, sang western songs and played western musical instruments.

Dancing into the future - at the Hall of the Baying Stag
There were also famous balls. The idea was that gentlemen should appear with their wives on their arms as western people did. But unless you were an ex-geisha as quite a few of the ladies were, most upper class Japanese women were not accustomed to going out with their husbands, so a lot of the ladies at the Rokumeikan were actually the geisha of the gentleman in question, not the wife.
From Aguranabe, 'Sitting round the beef pot'
by Kanagaki Robun

All this modernising was a lot of fun but it also had a serious purpose - to persuade the western powers that the Japanese were every bit as civilised as them so that they would repeal the hated unequal treaties, by which the Japanese had to pay inflated export duties and the exchange rate was rigged in the westerners’ favour and many other humiliating clauses besides.

But despite all the dancing and modern clothes, the treaties were not repealed until 1895, after Japan defeated China in the Sino-Japanese War. As a Japanese diplomat said wearily a decade later, after Japan defeated Russia in the Russo-Japanese War: ‘My people had been sending artistic treasures to Europe for some time, and had been regarded as barbarians. But as soon as we showed ourselves able to shoot down Russians with quick firing guns, we were acclaimed as a highly civilised race.’



In case anyone might like to hear more, I’m giving a couple of lectures to mark the 150th anniversary of the Meiji Restoration - at the Ashmolean in Oxford on Friday November 23rd from 1 to 2 and at the British Library on Tuesday November 27th at 7.15. 

Lesley Downer’s latest novel, The Shogun’s Queen, is an epic tale very much based on a true story and set in Japan at the time of the turmoil preceding the Meiji Restoration- out now in paperback. For more see www.lesleydowner.com.

All pictures courtesy of Wikimedia Commons or private collection.

Hair in History. An interview with Susan J. Vincent by Fay Bound Alberti

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I am delighted to dedicate my blog post this week to a new book by Dr Susan J. Vincent, a brilliant cultural historian and past partner-in-crime when we took our PhDs together at the University of York.

Susan, once a primary school teacher, has spent the last 24 years instead following a childhood interest in historical dress. She is a Research Associate at the Centre for Renaissance and Early Modern Studies (CREMS) at the University of York and has written on topics - and garments - that range from early modernity to the present day. Her previous books include Dressing the Elite: Clothes in Early Modern England (2003), The Anatomy of Fashion: Dressing the Body from the Renaissance to Today(2009) and as general editor, Bloomsbury's six-volume publication, A Cultural History of Dress and Fashion (2017).


Susan J. Vincent 

Susan's new book, Hair: An Illustrated History, published by Bloomsbury Press, aims to take the reader ‘on a lavishly illustrated journey into the world of this remarkable substance and our complicated and fascinating relationship with it’. Through a clever blend of art, film, diaries, newspapers, texts and images’, Susan explores the stories we have told about hair and why they matter: ‘From ginger jibes in the seventeenth century to bobbed-hair suicides in the 1920s, from hippies to Roundheads, from bearded women to smooth metrosexuals’, you will never look at hair the same way again.

I met up with Susan to talk about the book, and to ask what had been her inspiration.


Hair: An Illustrated History, by Susan J. Vincent


Fay: “Hair is a fascinating subject. What made you interested in its history?"

Susan: ‘Well as you know, I’m a dress historian. I became aware that while sociologists and anthropologists had written a lot about hair, dress historians hadn’t – hair exists somewhere between the body and the garment and it was part of dressing practice in the past – people in the past had good and bad hair days too!”

Fay: ‘What’s the most surprising thing you learned while researching this book?’

Susan: ‘So many things! I was surprised how wearing a length of hair that is opposed to the status quo and the norm is shocking and adversarial and can be used to make political statements. I was also surprised how much continuity there is in what we have wanted from hair over hundreds of years. The way we treat and wear hair might have changed, but people have always wanted to style it and look after it, and to have it thick and full. They worried about it falling out. They wanted to change its colour. Perhaps most surprising is the similarity in how people in the past felt about their hair care providers, the relationships they built with them, and the continuity in hairdresser and barber stereotypes.”

Fay: “Your book contains wonderfully descriptive stories about how people thought about and treated their hair over the years – do you have a favourite?”

Susan: “My favourite area is the bob, and how it enflamed passions. When women began to ‘bob’ their hair in the 1920s, it was linked to suicides from shock - either on the part of the newly-bobbed woman, or the suicide of a shocked and appalled family member. And bobs were hugely transformative - for individuals, for the hairdressing industry, and for society as a whole. For the first time ever, women didn’t have to have long hair, a change we take for granted today”.

Fay: “What is the most important message of the book?”

Susan: “That we can’t take hair for granted. I wanted to call the book: What we’ve done to hair and what hair has done to us. And I think that’s it in a nutshell: hair is not neutral, it has a huge effect on us, and we have an effect on it. We use it in lots of different ways, live our lives with it, make political points, and harness it to establish and articulate relationships”.

This beautifully illustrated and researched book covers a wide range of different perspectives on hair, as our discussion suggests, and I will leave you with an extract. Today, there is enormous pressure on women to eradicate hair from all over their bodies (at least the places where we don’t want it to grow). And the industry of hair removal is expensive and extensive. As a counterpoint to this trend of hair removal, and as a reminder that in the midst of exploitation around the female body, some women found ways to thrive, Susan tells the story of Madame Clementine Delait, a Bearded Lady.


Madame Clementine Delait, courtesy of
Wellcome Images


“Clementine was born in 1865 in a small village in Lorraine. Aside from shaving her facial hair, which began to grow in her teenage years, she lived an unremarkable life, marrying a local baker and together with him setting up the Café Delait. It was sometime after this that things started to change, for she ended up making a bet with a customer and letting her beard grow: ‘The success was immediate’, she wrote, ‘they were all crazy about me'. (Quoted in Susan Bell, 'Memoirs of a Bearded Lady who Noted Barbed Comments in Ink).

As Clementine’s fame spread, her beard became an attraction that was good for business, and she and her husband renamed their establishment the Café de la Femme à Barbe (Café of the Bearded Woman). Clementine’s husband died in 1926, just before she turned forty, and the widow took her facial hair further afield, eventually achieving celebratory status in Parisian and London theatres.

There are numerous postcards of her in many different poses and contexts, not only from her days of wider fame but also taken in front of her café, the establishment’s eponymous bearded proprietor. She died in 1939, requesting that her tombstone bear the inscription, ‘Here lies Clementine Delait, the bearded lady’. Thus Clementine’s memoir reveals that she deliberately put away her razor and chose to come out of the hirsute closet. She herself publicized her ability to grow whiskers, and it was a source of personal pride, as well as profit.

As evidenced by the memorial inscription she chose, Clementine Delait’s beard was a fundamental part of her identity and it gave her a social standing and degree of agency she would otherwise have been unable to attain. And she most certainly did not feel herself to be merely a curiosity for exhibit: ‘I was much more and much better than that.’

***

For a chance to win a copy of Hair: An Illustrated History by Susan J. Vincent, please answer the following question in the comments. The lucky winner's name will be drawn at random:

Which of the following items is the most recently invented hair-care invention?

a) tweezers
b) comb
c) hairbrush
d) curling tongs

www.fayboundalberti.com

Of poppies and remembrance: Sue Purkiss

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It can hardly have escaped anyone's notice that last Sunday was the hundredth anniversary of the end of the First World War. (A hundred years would have seemed an unimaginably long time to me when I was a child: now, not so much!) There have been poppies everywhere - but apparently, not quite enough of them...

In Cheddar, where I live, there has been some murmuring, because there has been no civic display of poppies. Other villages, it is claimed, have HUGE poppies attached to lamp posts. (It seems that there weren't enough of these to go round - Cheddar asked, but did not receive.) Outside every shop in Winscombe, a neighbouring village, there hangs a flag with that iconic image of exhausted soldiers stumbling through the hideous desert of the battlefields.

It has to be said that Cheddar has form here. When it was the Millenium, all the villages for miles around - tiny, many of them - suddenly acquired boundary stones with the village name carved on them. Not Cheddar. We got two raised beds, which are known as 'the village green' - even though we have two huge quarries nearby which could surely have provided any number of magnificent boulders. (You can tell this is still a sore point.)

Outside Cheddar Catholic Church

However, as others pointed out: even if the lamp posts lacked poppies, there were numerous displays in shops and outside churches: there was even one in a telephone box, which has been adopted by a group of local artists and used for mini-exhibitions. For Remembrance Day, they filled it with poppies in different media - fabric, ceramics, glass. And next weekend, there will be a theatrical performance scripted by brilliant local dramatist Gill Scard, who specialises in researching local history and then creating a performance piece from her discoveries, using local people as actors.

Inside the phone box (photo Ellen Grady)

So Cheddar, like everywhere else, has in fact found its own ways to remember, and to remind. And the vehicle for this is the poppy. It's not a universal symbol; it was adopted after the First World War, and its choice was inspired by a poem called In Flanders Fields, written in 1915 by a Canadian doctor, John McCrae, who noticed that poppies were growing in the scarred battlefields, and saw them as a symbol of hope and revival. In 1921, the Royal British Legion first sold poppies to raise money for wounded and disabled servicemen. In France, the cornflower became the symbol of remembrance. The white poppy, which has become more popular in recent years, was actually first promoted in the twenties by the Peace Pledge Union, who felt they wanted something which symbolised peace: perhaps they felt that red suggests blood.

Red and white poppies on the beautiful thirteenth century steps to the Chapter House in Wells Cathedral


Symbols are powerful things. This display, at Wells Cathedral, on the well-worn steps which lead up to the Chapter House (one of my favourite places in the world), surely testifies to that.

Incidentally, I wasn't at church at 11am on the 11th. I had popped into my local branch of Sainsburys, and, stupidly, hadn't even noticed the time. I wondered why all the staff were standing at the front of the store: someone quietly told me. And at 11am, we all stood in silence for two minutes. And there was something intensely moving about that, and about the way that afterwards some people spoke softly about those they had been remembering. It didn't matter that we weren't in a beautiful church, or before some imposing monument. It did matter that we were a group of human beings, sharing in an act of remembrance. And it doesn't matter which village has the best poppy display. What matters is that we remember, in whatever way suits us best.

Displays by children from local schools in the Chapter House

WHAT'S IN A NAME? by Penny Dolan.

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Last Sunday people stopped, stood silently for two minutes in honour of those who died in World War I and in more recent conflicts. People remembered the names of those who had died: the names carved on War Memorials or told in family stories whether in Britain or elsewhere.


This History Girls post is a personal story about name and identity and the aftermath of war: the subject is my mother’s oldest brother, named Herbert, who was born in India in 1910.

His father was true army, both as an orphaned boy-soldier and as a man. His mother was the sixth of seven children of another Indian Army officer and, in that time and climate, both would have been familiar with death. They brought the boys to England sometime around 1914. Herbert and his two brothers would have been far too young to serve but perhaps they travelled on the troopships bringing the Indian soldiers to Suez and on to France.

Herbert was the oldest son: however he did not want to be a soldier. Studious and sensitive, he took a clerical post and became interested in the church and books and amateur dramatics.
Then, aged around twenty, along with a close friend, he converted from Anglicanism to the Catholic Church and took a new name: Michael.


Saint Michael the Archangel, venerated in Christian and other faiths, is depicted with the sword he used to defeat Satan. In another role, as the Angel of Death, he offers redemption to dying souls and is therefore a rather useful devotion for anyone involved in battle.

A good soldierly name, but his father did not welcome the religious conversion. Herbert’s mother wanted to follow but that caused so marital trouble that she took it no further.

Not long after, Michael chose to pursue his vocation. He went to Begbroke Priory in Oxford, the Novitiate House of the Servants of Mary. I do wonder what had happened in his life that had made him so devoted to Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows? 


Had he seen disabled soldiers on the London streets? Or lost friends in the Flu Pandemic? Had his mother's and little sister's illnesses driven him to a deeper faith? Was any unknown sibling lost on the way? Something made Herbert Michael take a different direction but I do not know what.

On his ordination to the priesthood, he chose another military name: Martin.  


Saint Martin was a soldier in the Roman army. As he approached the gates of the city of Amiens, he met a half-naked beggar. Martin tried to give him his thick army cloak, but the beggar refused, saying that would leave Martin without one. Martin declared he could not leave the beggar to face another cold night. Impulsively, Martin slashed his cloak in two, gave one half to the beggar and went on his way. That night Martin saw a vision of Jesus, wearing the half-cloak he had given away. Martin became a revered priest, bishop and saint and his half-cloak was kept as a precious relic in Tours cathedral.

His order sent Father Martin to Salford during the war years, working in the Manchester slums. He was rarely able to visit home. On his annual visit to the Servite Mother House in Fulham, London, Father Martin could visit his mother for an afternoon. Sometimes he brought a troop of Scouts south to a Jamboree in Gilwell Park, near Epping so we could visit him there. But mostly he stayed away.

He led what seemed to me to be an odd but culturally rich life. We had some of his now unwanted books around: books of poems and plays and Lake District walks and watercolours. He sent me letters with amusing drawings and introduced me to the Victoria and Albert and the British Museum. I adored him from an awkward distance, for he could have a terrifying temper.

A sense of separation was inevitable, I suppose. Despite various vicar-detective tv fantasies, strict religious observances kept faiths apart during those decades.



Catholicism was seen as a faith of foreigners, with sins told in secret. The Church liturgy was not straightforward but recited in Latin with bells and even the daily practice was full of precise rituals and prayers. Communicants fasted from the evening before Mass, both the rich and those who had little food in their bellies in those hungry times and there was all that fuss about fish on Fridays. Divorce was impossible and Catholics could not attend any service – even a marriage or a funeral – in the church of another faith without permission, and those who entered the religious orders were encouraged to view the order as their family, rather than real relatives.

Maybe more than all that, as I grew older, I picked up another problem. His younger brother fought in the Second World War and came back from Dunkirk with his hair turned white. My father, who flew in bombers, returned with headaches and violent mood swings. 

Whenever they got together, and Uncle Michael was mentioned, there was a slight, silent accusation in the air that, for all his soldierly names and his good work in the slum parishes, the beloved man was a soldier’s son who never served in the war.  It was one of those unspoken silences that echo on and on in the wake of war.

Penny Dolan

The Brontës and Glass Town Wars (Part 2) - Celia Rees

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In a previous post, I described the genesis of my new novel, Glass Town Wars. In that post, I hadn't got much further than the initial idea. All writers know that, no matter how good an idea is, the proof of the pudding is in the writing.  
To re-cap, for those of you who either missed my post or who can't be bothered to click on the link, I'd had an idea for a book which would take a boy from the present and pitch him into the fantasy world of the Brontë siblings, a world which they called The Glass Town Federation and then Angria. I had a device for getting him there and I knew what I wanted to happen (he would meet the young Emily Brontë) but didn't have much beyond that. Crucially, although I knew something of Glass Town, Angria and Emily's later world of Gondal, I had yet to study the juvenilia in any detail. Cowardice on my part. I didn't want to discover that the idea wouldn't work and that I'd have to scrap it, especially as I'd more or less sold it to a publisher. 

I had my set up. So, now it was time to address the juvenilia. The Brontë siblings' early writing is contained in a number of tiny little handmade books (see my post, 18th October). Luckily, these have been collected, deciphered, edited and published in handy volumes, like Christine Alexander's Tales of Glass Town, Angria and Gondal.  

     

I began to read and found a world that was precociously brilliant, brimming with creative exuberance and dazzling, instinctive, natural talent: fascinating, elaborate, complex - and completely crazy. The Brontë siblings wrote from childhood into adolescence and young adulthood and they wrote a lot. They drew on anything and everything to make the worlds they were creating: current newspaper stories, events local and historical; they filched wholesale from writers they admired and liberally incorporated stories that they had heard: local legends and folk stories, fairies, ghosts, ghouls and witches. They peopled the world with whoever they wanted in it: dukes and duchesses, friendless young women and cigar smoking gentlemen, pirates, low life thugs and body snatchers, doctors, journalists and printers. Everything, anything, they wanted to happen, happened. One of their earliest inventions were the mile high Genii who could build cities in the middle of no-where, preside over the rise and fall of empires – the Genii, of course, were the Brontës themselves. 

Branwell's Map of Glass Town Federation and Angria 
They founded their world at the mouth of the River Niger in Africa with Glass Town as its capital, yet less than a day's ride away, Parrysland (Emily's territory) was suspiciously like Yorkshire, Rossland (Anne's territory) was like Scotland because they admired the work of Sir Walter Scott. And so on. Across their world, wars raged, revolutions erupted and were suppressed, characters were killed off and resurrected, love affairs conducted, marriage vows made and broken. All of this was written, not in story form but in reports, articles, announcements, poems and advertisements in tiny volumes that are really magazines and newspapers, written for, about and by the citizens of Glass Town. The whole complex fantasy grew from a box of wooden soldiers given to Branwell on his ninth birthday. The size of the miniature publications had been carefully calculated by him so that they were the correct dimensions for the original wooden soldiers. The body of writing changed as the siblings grew older but the books containing it were always small, the writing always tiny because this was a secret world. They were writing for themselves, not for anyone else. 


I found much to admire. I particularly loved the different forms their writing took but the anarchic nature of much of it meant the fantasy world lacked any kind of cohesion, internal logic, or discipline. They were children, writing like all children do, without hindrance and constraint, simply writing about what they wanted to write about, what they wanted to happen, as children might write fan fiction now. They were writing to please themselves, not an external reader. All young writers tend to have this is common and this way of writing often continues on through adolescence to young adulthood as it did with the Brontës, although that is probably the subject of a different blog.

 Page from Branwell's notebook
I admit to being a bit foxed. Even in fantasy there has to be internal logic within a story and there was none here. The only way forward, other than abandoning the enterprise altogether, was to embrace the craziness. Tom, my modern character, is my commentator: it doesn’t make sense to him, either. I looked past the writing to the young authors themselves. There was conflict there, especially between Branwell and Charlotte. As they grew older, their vision diverged sharply. They wrote against each other in rival Glass Town publications. Branwell's focus was on politics, war and fighting, Charlotte preferred palace intrigue and romance. I also detected rebellion in the ranks. At some point, Emily and Anne must have tired of being bossed by the older two and decided to found their own world of Gondal. That was the point where I would introduce Tom. Nothing written by Emily or Anne has survived, apart from some poems, so I had carte blanche. Rebellion would mean war in Glass Town and out of it. 

The young Brontēs had given me a fascinating world, not least the Great Glass Town, beautifully described in detail - they were talented writers even as children - and a fabulous cast of characters from the Dukes Wellington  and Douro to Branwell's lowlife 'rare lads': D'Eath, Sneaky, Tom Scroven, Dick Crack-Skull and Richard Naughty. A perfect villain in the person of the Duke of Northangerland aka Rogue. Haughty dark beauties, like Lady Zenobia Ellerington and the passionately independent Augusta Geraldine Almeida, A.G.A., Emily's character who will become Queen of Gondal. 

Northangerland aka Rogue
I'd take my cue from the Brontës - anything goes. In the background is the gaming that got Tom into this in the first place. Got him in, but can’t get him out again. Fantasy Past meeting Fantasy Present. But fantasy doesn't exist in time and space. So if a character from one world can enter another, why not the other way round? Anything can happen, right? So if a boy from the present can go to Glass Town, why not take Emily Brontë into our fantasy worlds: Apocalypse, Zombies, Grand Theft Auto, Gotham City? I don't think she'd have been phased by it, not one little bit. 

Celia Rees
www.celiarees.com

THE SAUCE FACTOR By L.J. Trafford

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The Roman biographer Gaius Suetonius Tranquilius was born in 69AD, probably in North Africa. A friend of Pliny the Younger, Suetonius wrote several notable works. His most notable and most notorious is The Twelve Caesars.
This was a collected biography of twelve ruling Caesars from Julius Caesar to Domitian. As an employee of the Emperor Hadrian Suetonius had access to the Imperial archives and he used materials from there to pepper his work. 

Pepper his work with SAUCE, that is. Yes, Tacitus is a brilliant writer and oh so very quotable. Yes, Virgil wrote an epic poem that apparently is so good first year ancient history BA’s are forced to write essays on it two thousand years later. Yes, some people think Livy wrote good histories. But NONE of them have a patch on Suetonius. 

For Suetonius is the master sauce merchant. There is no scurrilous rumour too unlikely for him to commit to papyri. We thank him for being a gleaming light of entertainment sandwiched betwixt the Aeneid and those books that Livy wrote on stuff.

So to give him his due I have elected to celebrate his work with a competition we, (or rather I) like to call THE SAUCE FACTOR!

I have read each of Suetonius’ 12 chapters on emperors and rated each one according to their sauce level. I have also added in a category for omen/portent-ability. The Romans were heavy believers in the Gods transmitting their will via freak weather events, odd occurrences, dreams and the eating habits of chickens of the sacred variety. I shall be picking out the most incredible omen associated with that emperor and giving it a score.

Settle down with a large glass of wine, set your mind to boggling and your eyes to goggling because we are going in....
Welcome to the Sauce Factor!


1) Julius Caesar

He wasn't actually an emperor but we'll overlook that. Lover of many ladies, fighter of pirates, destroyer of the Republic.

Top Omen– There was a long steady string of what Suetonius calls ‘unmistakable signs’ before his assassination. The Gods were very much trying to SAY something. If only he’d LISTENED. Which is Caesar’s tragedy in a much shorter form than Shakespeare managed. Ha!
The best of these unmistakable signs is undoubtedly the horses that couldn’t stop crying.

Omen Rating: 4/5 for sheer quantity. 

Top Sauce - Definitely an affair with the King of Bithynia that earned him the hardly original nickname, “The Queen of Bithynia”. Frankly everyone could have done better on that one.
Sauce Rating: 3/5



2) Augustus
Now Augustus was definitely an Emperor.

 He Instituted laws against adultery whilst putting it away all over the place himself, was debauched by Julius Caesar and possessed a cruel & ruthless streak as streaky as Danish bacon. 

Top Omen– Augustus’ life must have been very tiring what with all those portents/omens flashing all around him constantly. A one man weather magnet he was frequently accompanied by lightening (very, very frightening. No genuinely, Augustus had a fear of thunderstorms) and rainbows.
The most notable of the young Augustus’ 
constant brush with portents was undoubtedly: The Silencing of the Frogs. The toddler Augustus annoyed by the constant croaking around him order the frogs to cease. They did. And never ever croaked in that area ever, ever again. 
Omen Rating: 5/5


Top Sauce - Deflowering maidens gathered by his wife. 

Sauce rating: 3/5


3) Tiberius.
Forced to divorce the wife he loved, so fed up with Augustus he ran away to Rhodes in a sulk, terrible judge of character *cough* Sejanus *cough* . Tiberius did not have the happiest of lives. But it really all kicks off when he retired to Capri, where despite being in his mid 70s he partook in debaucheries that would have killed a lesser man. Possibly he gained such stamina in his youth as a successful general in the provinces. Or possibly it was all made up. Suetonius refuses to take sides on the debate and instead lovingly records every gruesome detail so that we may make up our own minds (once our eyes have popped back in our skulls).


Top Omen– Tiberius had no deep regard for the Gods and clearly they had not a lot for him because portents/omens are thin on the ground. The best Suetonius can find is an earthquake on Capri shortly before he died which destroyed a light house.
Omen Rating: 1/5

Top Sauce - Retiring to Capri & partaking of activities 'too vile to discuss'. Which Suetonius then lists. 

Sauce Rating: A deserved OMG 5/5

4) Caligula.
Suetonius does a nice quotable bit on Caligula which is worth memorising and repeating every time someone annoys you. “So much for the man. Now for the Monster.” Suetonius

Photo by Clio20
then has great fun listing all of Caligula’s monstrous acts including incest with all 3 sisters, wearing *the horror* silk robes, snuggling up with the actor Mnester, inviting people to dinner then nicking their wives and a thing with Valerius Catullus, who announced to all “that he had buggered the Emperor, and quite worn himself out in the process”

Top Omen– Much like Julius Caesar Caligula was plagued with signs of DEATH before his brutal murder. The best of these is the statue of Jupiter that burst into laughter. 

Omen Rating: 4/5

Top Sauce - Summoning three terrified Senators in the dead of night solely to perform a dance for them.
Sauce Rating:  5/5 for effort & speed of sauce given he only ruled for 3 years.


5) Claudius.
Not as kindly as Robert Graves would have you think. Married four times, Suetonius intriguingly tells us Claudius divorced his first wife for scandalous behaviour and suspicion of MURDER. Then infuriatingly does not elaborate any further.

Photo by  Marie-Lan Nguyen
Top Omen– Claudius unlike Caesar and Caligula actually paid attention to the Gods and was all over omens like a slobbering rash. 
One night Claudius’ attendant Narcissus had a terrible dream that the emperor had been murdered by a certain Appius Silanus. When Claudius told this to his wife she revealed she had had the EXACT same dream. Now this was clearly a sign that needed LISTENING to. So Claudius had Silanus executed. Only it was actually a FAKE omen dreamed up by the Empress and Narcissus to get rid of Silanus. 
Omen Rating: A pathetic and fake 0/5

Top Sauce - Making it legal to marry your niece. So he could marry his niece. She later had him poisoned
Sauce Rating: 3/5

6) Nero.
Fabulous at getting rid of family members including his wife, his step brother & most shamefully his mother, Nero lived life LARGE. So large he had to take himself over to

Greece to accommodate his growing ego. Suetonius informs us sagely that Nero practised every kind of obscenity. But this time, unlike with Tiberius, he leaves it to our imagination. After that Tiberius chapter my imagination has descended hitherto unknown depths, so I’m confident they were horrifically obscene.

Top Omen – Suetonius has several bad omens at the birth of Nero including the words of his own father that any child of his and Agrippina’s was bound to have a detestable nature. Which when you think about it is more of an informed comment
than an omen. 

After this the best Suetonius can do is to record the people who post Nero’s death remembered that the Emperor had during his artistic career played various characters who met unfortunate ends. But given Nero acted in Greek Tragedy this is not terribly surprising.
Though Nero’s death was short on omens the end of the Julio Claudian dynasty begun by Augustus was predicted by a bolt of lightening that hit the Capitol and decapitated all the statues. So we’ll give him points for that. 
Omen Rating: 2/5

Top Sauce - Toss up between marrying his eunuch Sporus as a groom & marrying his ex-slave Doryphorus as a bride. 
Sauce Rating: 4/5 for being ever the bride and the groom



7) Galba.
The first of the four emperors that ruled in a single year, Galba reigned but a short time. During that whole time there were omens everywhere predicting bad things. Or perhaps that was all the work of a certain Otho who organised the coup that deposed Galba.


Top Omen – So many, so lovingly recorded but my personal favourite is when Galba went to read the auspices. His garland fell off and scared the sacred chickens, who flew away. I like it because it’s the sort of thing that would happen to me.
Omen Rating: 2/5

Top Sauce - A preference for mature & very sturdy men.
Sauce rating: 2/5




8) Otho.
He reigned even shorter than Galba who he overthrew in a very bloody coup. Otho wore a toupee so good that nobody knew about it, says Suetonius 70 years later. He also used to 

prevent beard growth using moist bread & shaved his entire body of hair.

Top Omen– Otho owed his entire position to his astrologer Seleucus who convinced him that not only would he outlive Nero but also that he would become Emperor. Having dispatched Galba, Otho arrived at the palace to find that Vitellius had declared himself Emperor in Germania and was on route with a massive unbeatable army. Which rather served Otho right. Suetonius does not record what happened to Seleucus. 
Omen Rating: Because history would have been very different if Otho hadn't listened to his astrologer 4/5

Top Sauce - A threesome with Nero & his wife Poppaea 
Sauce Rating: 3.5/5




9) Vitellius 
Suetonius says Vitellius' main vices were extravagance & cruelty. So the sauce is literal sauce.
 Photo by Luis García
Top Omen– When he was at Vienna a rooster perched first on his shoulder and then on his hand. As Vitellius was later overthrown by the advance of General Antonius Primus, whose childhood nickname had been Roosters’ Beak, this was seen as a very good premonition. Though the big question is surely what part of Primus was shaped like a rooster’s beak to gain him that nickname? 
Omen Rating: 3/5

Top literal sauce - So greedy he nicked meat off the altar during sacrifices.
Sauce Rating: Probably garum but we'll give him 1/5


10) Vespasian.
Picked up Rome after the civil wars of 69ad. Very lacking in sauce. But positively awash with omens! So it’s not all bad. The Gods were super keen to alert all that Vespasian would be emperor. They repeatedly threw odd events his direction to signal this. But much like

Attributed to Shakko
nobody can quite see that Clark Kent and Superman are clearly the same guy, everyone seems to have just accepted that weird things kept happening to Vespasian and thought no more of it. After Nero died the omens trebled in number and poor Vespasian couldn’t walk down a street without the statues turning round or random passersbys declaring he would be ruler. In the end it would have been rude not to declare himself emperor, so he did.

Top Omen– So, so many to choose from but my favourite is the dog that deposited a human hand on Vespasian’s foot. This was apparently a sure sign he would be emperor. Though the bigger question is where did the hand come from? And shouldn’t someone have gone and found out? 
Omen Rating: 5/5


Top Sauce - Treating his long term mistress Caenis as his wife. 
Sauce Rating: Sorry Vespasian that's nowhere near saucy enough, it's a 0.5/5


11) Titus.
He had a love affair with Queen Berenice of Judaea & declared that he had only one regret in life. Possibly his inability to finish sentences, because he never finished that one.

Attributed TcfkaPanairjdde

Top Omen
– Titus’ reign ought to be one of terrible omens given he presided over the eruption of Vesuvius, another devastating fire in Rome and an outbreak of plague. Annoyingly Suetonius does not attribute the Gods’ displeasure to any of these events and Titus gets off scot free. Apparently he was“an object of universal love and adoration.” I hate him.
Omen Rating: Pah! Only 1/5 because nobody recognised the Gods hated Titus and were desperately trying to tell everyone so.

Top Sauce - Owning a troop of dancing boys who he released into the wild on becoming emperor. 
Sauce Rating: 3/5

12) Domitian.
Domitian is an excellent study in paranoia and also how to induce it in others. 
He was so paranoid he had his floor polished to glass like standards so he could see anyone sneaking up on him. Which still didn't prevent his assassination.

Top Omen- Domitian's paranoia is probably explained by the fact that astrologers had long predicted the day and hour of his death. Something his father, Vespasian, used to joke about over breakfast. Then lunch. Then Dinner. Then just before he read young Domitian his bedtime story. Domitian did not find this remotely amusing.
Amongst a barrage of freak weather, including a hurricane, the top omen is surely the raven that perched on the Capitol and declared “All is well.” Suetonius points out helpfully that the raven was speaking in the future tense and all would be well once Domitian was dead 

Omen Rating: 4/5 for knowing his WHOLE life exactly when he would die. One has to appreciate the specifics of it.

Top Sauce - An affair with his niece Julia. Which isn't that saucy given Claudius had made relationships between uncles and nieces legal.

Sauce Rating: 3/5


The Results
Well, it's been a pleasure and I can now exclusively reveal (after a ten minute pause inserted to create tension) that our top Emperor for Suetonian Sauciness is a joint affair between..........drum roll.............

Tiberius and Caligula!!!!

And our emperor who produced the most impressive omens is....well would you believe it....it's another tie! This time between Vespasian and Augustus.

Well done to all our losers also. Try not to take it too badly.




L.J. Trafford is the author of The Four Emperors Series. With the fourth book in the series being released on 1st December 2018.





“As thou art, so once was I” by Carolyn Hughes

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I've been delving once more into the history of plague in the fourteenth century, in preparation for writing the fourth book in my novel series, the Meonbridge Chronicles. In my reading, I came across a reference to the story of “the three living and the three dead”, and to the images of these unhappy characters that abound in European churches, including many in England. I’ve known about this trope for years, but I was prompted to revisit briefly what I had read before about the effect of the Black Death on art in Europe, simply out of fascination! I apologise in advance that this is not going to be a very cheery little piece!

There are three types of art that I am looking at in this context: images of the “three living and three dead”, in manuscripts and on church walls throughout Europe; cadaver or memento mori tombs, and portrayals of the dansemacabre or Dance of Death.

The three living and the three dead
The three living and three dead was a common theme in paintings prior to the arrival of the Black Death in the mid fourteenth century (1348-50 in the UK). But it seems that, after the Black Death, the images became even more plentiful and more shocking and realistic in their presentation. 
The British Library blog tells us a little more about the Three Living and Three Dead trope. The tale was clearly commonplace in Europe, especially in France and England, and dates back at least to the 13th century.  The basic story is that three wealthy young men are out hunting when they meet three corpses, in various states of decay but which can nonetheless talk, and they remind the young men of the transience of life and the need to mend their dissolute ways.
This page from the early 14th century Psalter of Robert de Lisle, from East Anglia, which is held in the British Library, has three kings meeting the three corpses, and underneath are lines from an Anglo-Norman poem Le dit des trios morts et trios vifs. Some of the words are familiar enough: “I was well fair” (Ich wes wel fair) say the corpses, and “Such shall you be” (Such schel tou be). We will meet these sentiments again.
By “De Lisle Psalter”. British-Library-Arundel-127.
[Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons]
And here is similar image, from the manuscript of the Roman de la Rose, held in the Bibliothèque nationale de France:
By Variés XIIIe (BnF Ms 378 Roman de la rose).
[Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons]
 
I am struck by how, in both these manuscripts, the corpses look so very cheerful, as if they are saying “yah sucks to you”!
An Italian fresco in the Camposanto Monumentale in Pisa, painted by Buonamico Buffalmacco probably in 1338-39, roughly a decade before the Black Death spread across Europe, shows The Three Dead and the Three Living, as well as the Triumph of Death, the Last Judgement, and Hell. It is a bit more serious in tone than the two manuscripts. A group of youths are enjoying themselves in the garden while angels of Death collect corpses over their heads. The painting is thought to have inspired the setting of Boccaccio’s Decameron, written a few years after the Black Death and, apparently, Buffalmacco himself is depicted in three of the Decameron’s stories as a merry prankster. How very curious!
Fresco by Buonamico Buffalmacco in Pisa.
[Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons]
Images of the three living and three dead abound on church walls throughout Europe, including many in England. Of the English examples, I’ll show two, both 14th century and both from Norfolk: one from the church of St Margaret and St Remigius in Seething, and another from St Andrew’s Church in Wickhampton.
Part of the mural in Seething.Evelyn Simak / The church of SS Margaret and Remigius,
in Seething - Three Living and Three Dead - CC BY-SA 2.0.

Part of the mural in Wickhampton.
By David from Colorado Springs, United States
(St Andrew’s church Wickhampton Norfolk).
[CC BY-SA 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons]
Again, how very cheerful those grinning corpses are, presumably having a huge laugh at the expense of the living!

Cadaver tombs
Much less jolly-seeming, however, are the cadaver or memento mori tombs, which became popular, if that can be the right word, in the 15th century. An understanding of the inevitability of death and the ultimate futility of wealth, power or beauty is depicted clearly in the gruesomeness of their sculptures.
A cadaver tomb is a type of gisant, a recumbent effigy tomb, which has an effigy of a decomposing corpse, often shrouded and sometimes complete with worms, either on its own or together with an effigy of the living (in a “double-decker” tomb). Memento mori (“remember (that) you will die”) is a medieval reflection on the vanity and transience of earthly life
The “before” and “after” images of the deceased on these tombs are reminiscent of the three living and the three dead.
Cadaver tombs were of course only for high-ranking people because one had to be rich to afford to have one made, and powerful enough to be allotted space for it in the church. Which is rather ironic given the nature of the memento mori premise...
Examples in England include the tomb and effigy of John FitzAlan, 14th Earl of Arundel, who died in 1435, in the Fitzalan Chapel at Arundel, West Sussex, which I have seen. The sculpture of the corpse is hideously realistic.
The Earl of Arundel’s tomb. By Lampman.
[CC BY-SA 3.0, from Wikimedia Commons]
Another example is this one in Fyfield Church in Essex, of John Golafre (died 1442), an English courtier and Member of Parliament. Again, the cadaver sculpture below his armoured effigy is one of the more realistic products of this macabre late-medieval tradition.
John Golafre’s tomb in Fyfield. By William M. Connolley.
[CC BY-SA 4.0, from Wikimedia Commons]
John Baret, a wealthy burgess from Bury St Edmunds, Norfolk, who died in 1467, doesn’t have a “living” effigy on his tomb, but just a cadaver, and again horribly realistic. And, grimly, the inscription says: “Miserable one, what reason have you to be proud? Soon you will be as we / a fetid cadaver, food for worms.” Indeed!

Danse macabre
That Death is contemptuous of rank and wealth was an egalitarian message that found further expression in late medieval Europe with the images of the danse macabre or Dance of Death. The message of these paintings, on walls and on canvas, is the same: what point is there in wealth, power, gentle birth, beauty etc etc, when the end is the same for all? This populist theme of Death as the Great Leveller was taken up everywhere in 15th century art.
In a late medieval poem, Disputacione betwyx the Body and Wormes (c1440), the poet has seen a cadaver tomb of a young noblewoman, her effigy shown as both “living” and “dead”. In his reflection upon her death, the poet has Worms argue with the Body that their role is not to consume her once fresh Body “with ane insaciabylle and gredy appetyte”, but in fact to devour her rotting flesh quite selflessly, generously even! As we hafe to do, the Worms say, “with alle that wer myghty”, just as the young woman herself once was. 
In the danse macabre images, one or more personifications of Death summon representatives from all walks of life to dance to the grave. A splendid example of this is a mural in a church in Hrastovlje, Slovenia, painted at the end of the 15th century. It shows men and women of every rank and station being led, again by grinning skeletons, towards a grave. (I have had to chop this image in half to enable you to see it moderately clearly...)
Mural in Hrastovlje, Slovenia. Top: Left half; Bottom: Right half.
National Gallery of Slovenia.
[Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons]
The leftmost section of the Hrastovlje mural. 
Bibliofil at cs.wikipedia [CC-BY-SA-3.0 or CC BY-SA 2.5, from Wikimedia Commons]
Edward of Woodstock (the Black Prince) was the eldest son of Edward III, but died before his father and so it was his young son, Richard II, who succeeded to the throne. Nonetheless, Edward was revered as one of the most successful English commanders of the Hundred Years’ War, and was thought by his contemporaries to be one of the greatest knights of his age.
Despite, or perhaps because of, his elevated status, Edward evidently thought it right to show humility in death. He died of dysentery (perhaps) in 1376, and was buried with great state in Canterbury Cathedral.
The tomb of the Black Prince, in Canterbury Cathedral. By Jerrye & Roy Klotz, MD.
[CC BY-SA 3.0, from Wikimedia Commons]
But his epitaph, inscribed around his effigy, includes these humble, knowing, lines:

Such as thou art, sometime was I.
Such as I am, such shalt thou be.
I thought little on th’our of Death
So long as I enjoyed breath.
On earth I had great riches
Land, houses, great treasure, horses, money and gold.
But now a wretched captive am I,
Deep in the ground, lo here I lie.
My beauty great, is all quite gone,
My flesh is wasted to the bone.


Sentiments that we have met before in this little review of the medieval art of death.




Ancient World Glitter and Glamour by Elisabeth Storrs

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I’m delighted to join the History Girls and hope you’ll enjoy learning a little of the history behind the Etruscans whose society has fascinated me for over twenty years of research. Compared to other ancient civilisations in the Mediterranean such as Rome and Greece, the Etruscans afforded independence, education and sexual freedom to their women which intrigued me. This liberal, mystical and cosmopolitan society inspired me to write the Tales of Ancient Rome saga which chronicles the events of a ten year conflict between Republican Rome and Veii, a city described as the ‘jewel in the crown’ of the Etruscan world. It is the tale of two lovers who are blamed for starting a war, and the journey of three women to survive a siege.

C5th  BCE Etruscan Jewellery set
 Gold, rock crystal, agate, carnelian
When ancient Italy is mentioned most think of Rome as the dominant culture. Yet the Etruscans had built a sophisticated and extensive civilization well before the Romans were fighting turf wars with other Latin tribes. According to legend, three Etruscan kings ruled Rome until the evil Tarquin the Proud was expelled for raping Lucretia, a virtuous Roman matron, which led to the foundation of the Roman Republic. In fact, at its height, Etruria and its settlements extended throughout the modern regions of Umbria, Emilia-Romagna, Tuscany, Lazio and part of Campania and also dominated trade routes stretching from the Black Sea to northern Africa. The civilisation lasted for centuries with first settlements dated from early Iron age 1100 BCE throughout Archaic, Classical and Hellenistic periods before finally ‘dying out’ around 100 BCE as a result of conquest and assimilation by first Greece and then Rome. During this immense span of history Etruscan fashion, jewellery, furniture and utensils changed, but one constant remained throughout each era - the Etruscans loved beautiful things. The more glittering and glamourous the better.

Etruscan Earring types- disc, pendant, 'grape' and baule
One of the more enjoyable aspects of my research was to imagine the jewellery my characters would wear, and the objects that surrounded them. And what an amazing treasure trove I discovered.
 Etruscans decked themselves with pectorals, torques, fibulae brooches, necklaces, rings, bracelets, lockets and hair ornaments. Most magnificent of all were elaborate headdresses crowned with clusters of golden or silver leaves. Sophisticated techniques that involved filigree, engraving, repousse (hammered relief decoration) and granulation (where tiny grains of gold were soldered to cover the surface of an object) were all employed by gold smiths to stunning effect. Amber was popular and of course – gold.

Earrings were delicate or ostentatious with some pendant earrings dangling four inches long. Others were shaped in heavy grape clusters. Bauletto ‘little bag’ earrings were cylindrical in shape and were often suspended on hooks made from fine gold filigree wire. Others consisted of rosette discs with tiny gemstones within elaborate floral motifs.

Etruscans were particularly fond of wearing hollow ‘bulla’ lockets which could contain perfume or a charm to ward off ill luck. Roman boys wore a bulla until they reached manhood whereas Etruscan men wore bullae throughout their lives. Greek critics condemned Etruscan men for their hedonistic lifestyle and their great love of luxury but such criticisms belied their ferocity and skill as warriors. It is said that the Romans learned the art of phalanx warfare from this foe.

Bulla, Wreaths, Pectoral and Amber pendant

And where was this finery stored?  In cylindrical containers known as cistae which could also be divided into compartments where mirrors, combs and perfume bottles were kept. There is a particularly fine example of a cista from Praeneste, a site in Latium that was heavily influenced by Etruscan culture. The body of this container is decorated with scenes from the most infamous couple of ancient times, that of Helen of Troy and Paris.

In addition to jewellery, the Etruscans loved highly decorated jugs, cookware, utensils and furniture. The most stunning examples came from the era known as the ‘Orientalizing’ period from ca. 720-575 BCE. This was a time when Phoenician and Greeks were attracted to Etruria due to its rich metal deposits. The Phoenicians were a sea faring people with extensive trading interests across the ancient world. Originally from the area we now know of as Lebanon, they also set up a colony in Carthage (modern Tunisia).Through their trading links, goods from Egypt and Assyria were imported into Etruria and graced the houses of the wealthy.

Praenestine cista and bronze incense burner
 Enormous bronze and silver mixing bowls were decorated with mortal and mythical animals: scarabs, panthers, winged lions, chimeras and sphinxes.  Ivory inlaid boxes were popular as well as faience vases (tin glaze on earthenware) and even decorated ostrich eggs (a symbol of fertility). Huge chandeliers with wick holes were fashioned with the Gorgon faces. Satyrs and maenads graced wine jugs. Incense burners, balsarium perfume holders, handles, and furniture feet were produced in anthropomorphic shapes. Such highly ornamental and often grotesque designs continued to be used throughout the entire duration of Etruscan civilisation. So when you think of designer jewellery—the Etruscans paved the way—although their home wares may not be considered stylish to our modern tastes!

Bronze balsarium (perfume holder) and offering dish handle

Elisabeth Storrs is the author of the Tales of Ancient Rome saga. Learn more at www.elisabethstorrs.comMore examples of Etruscan jewellery can be found on her Pinterestboard.

Images are courtesy of The Met Project and Wikimedia Commons

Charles Hamilton Sorley: The Forgotten Poet of WWI by Catherine Hokin

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 It Is Easy To Be Dead - Aberdeen Performing Arts
November's commemorations of the end of World War One have had a particular poignancy this year. Not only is it the centenary but the hundreds of acts of remembrance have taken place against a backdrop of Brexit and the break-up of Europe, possibly also the break-up of the Union. This isn't the place to get political but, for those of us with strong connections to our wider European community, there were extra reasons to shed tears this month as we watched the nations coming together to lay their wreathes. It seemed fitting therefore that I got a chance to see Neil McPherson's wonderful play It Is Easy To Be Dead, recently in Glasgow. This tells the story of  forgotten war poet Charles Hamilton Sorley who was born in Aberdeen, educated at Marlborough and killed, aged 20, at the Battle of Loos in October 1915. In his very short life he wrote 38 poems, spurred on, in his own words by his mother's "badgering". Although his name is included on the War Poets' memorial in Westminster Abbey, you'll rarely find him mentioned now, or taught, but at his death the Poet Laureate John Masefield called Sorley "potentially the greatest poet lost to us in that war". 

 Charles Hamilton Sorley
That we don't know him as well as we should is a great loss - his poems are unsentimental, compassionate and filled with a concern for humanity that belies his young age. They were first published in 1916, by his parents, together with a collection of his letters written both from the front and during the lengthy period he spent as a student in Germany in 1914. A trip cut short when Britain came into the escalating conflict in the August of that year. It is this experience I think which marks his work out from his better-known contemporaries - it has certainly been cited as the reason why he does not fit well in the war poets' canon. Sorley did not see the war through patriotic eyes and there is none of the jingoistic language in his work that was more commonly found in early WWI poetry. His letters suggest that he identified more strongly with German values than he did with English ones - while this may be no more than the enthusiasm of a young man on his first trip abroad, it certainly gave him a sense of fellow-feeling. He spoke fluent German and was enamoured with the country and its culture - his poem To Germany written on the eve of the war addresses the common bond he shares with the young Germans about to be plunged, like him, into a madness not of their making:

You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed,

And no man claimed the conquest of your land.

But gropers both through fields of thought confined

We stumble and we do not understand.

He was under no illusions about the cost of the coming war in terms of the misery it would bring - the poem's last line reads: "until peace, the storm, the darkness and the thunder and the rain." As his father, a professor of moral philosophy at the University of Aberdeen, said of his son in the preface to the volume of letters and poems: ‘He looked on the world with clear eyes and the surface show did not deceive him.’

The title of the play, It Is Easy To Be Dead, comes from perhaps Sorley's best known poem and his last one: When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead. It was written shortly before his death and found with his kit. It is a beautiful poem; that a twenty-year old had learned to be so aware of the reality of war and the ultimate futility of weeping for the dead makes it a heart-breaking one.

When you see millions of the mouthless dead

 Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
 
Say not soft things as other men have said,
 
That you'll remember. For you need not so.
 
Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know 

It is not curses heaped on each gashed head? 

Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
 
Nor honour. It is easy to be dead. Say only this, 'They are dead.'
 
Then add thereto, ‘Yet many a better one has died before.'
 
Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you
 
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
 
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
 
Great death has made all his for evermore.

Sorley didn't live to see what came next - as we remember those who died in a frighteningly divided world, let's hope we don't live to regret what's coming next for us.

Broken Faces by Judith Allnatt

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In WW1, the use of weapons such as grenades, flamethrowers and howitzers meant that war was waged on a vicious industrial scale. Those lucky enough to survive their injuries were often maimed or facially disfigured and returned to ‘Blighty’ both physically and emotionally scarred.

My own great grandfather, who suffered a terrible head wound that required a trepanning operation, was greatly affected by his injury. The metal plate that covered the hole in his skull caused agonising headaches and he became irascible and depressed. Like many returning soldiers, he found it difficult to adapt once more to civilian life. He couldn’t work; his life could not be as it had been before the war. He had seen and experienced too much. He no longer felt like the same person.

This sense of lost identity, felt by many returning soldiers, was a subject I wanted to explore in my book ‘The Moon Field’. I chose to write about facial disfigurement in particular - what the French called ‘gueules cass
ées'  – broken faces. What could be more apt as a symbol of lost identity than the loss of one’s own familiar face?The public treatment of these war veterans was mixed. In parks, benches were set aside for disfigured soldiers and painted blue so that other people could avoid them. Whilst this may have been a well-intentioned effort to give the men some privacy, it also isolated them further, making them feel as if they were monsters. In my research I came across references to them as ‘droolers’ and stories of job vacancies swiftly withdrawn, café owners ushering the men to seats well away from the windows and even the throwing of stones. In my novel, the character with the broken face retreats to a ‘back room’ job as a cinema projectionist, withdrawing to the safe cocoon of darkness. It was my task, as writer, to take him on a journey back to the light.

At the start of the war, before the invention of the techniques that became the forerunners of modern plastic surgery, disfigured men were fitted for masks. The hospital units concerned became known, with gallows humour, as ‘the tin noses shop’. The metal masks could be taken on and off, with arms that fitted over the ears as with spectacles but which were also fixed securely at the back of the head with a wire fastening.


Men and women, who had been genteel sculptors who carved statues and fountains before the war, became instead shapers of men’s faces. One such, Anna Coleman Ladd, in a startling juxtaposition of the two worlds, described the galvanised copper of a mask as being ‘as thin as a visiting card’. They took enormous care to make the masks realistic: real hairs were laid on one at a time to make the eyebrows; the man’s skin tones were matched as nearly as possible and even a slight blue was added to replicate the effect of a ‘five o’clock shadow’. 

Making a mask began with laying bandages soaked in plaster across the face to make a cast. Holes were left at the nostrils for the patient to breathe through but nonetheless it was a rather suffocating experience that had to be carefully timed, as the plaster became hot as it dried. A clay ‘squeeze’ would then be taken from the cast and the sculptor would copy the ‘good’ side of the face to create a mirror image, so that the mask modelled on it would restore the symmetry of the face. 


For men who had been so badly disfigured that they experienced people recoiling from them, sometimes even their own children running from them in fear, having a mask could return to them some dignity. Despite the fact that their expression was inevitably fixed and ‘doll-like’, being able to show the world a recognisably human face meant that they had the freedom to go out in public again. I found it heartbreakingly poignant to read the words of a grateful patient, in a letter sent to Mrs Ladd: ‘My wife no longer finds me an object of revulsion, as she had every right to do’. 

Some men who wore masks were able to return gradually to a more socially integrated life, particularly when supported by close family. Others seemed to create new ‘families’ through congregating with others who had been similarly damaged: a community was set up in France by the Union des Blessés de la Face (the Union of the Facially Wounded) where disfigured men turned away from the outside world and lived and farmed together. At last, new identities were forged and the men often felt that their mask became so much a part of them that they asked, in their wills, to be buried in them.




Roger Bigod Earl of Norfolk circa 1140-1221 by Elizabeth Chadwick

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Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk is the male protagonist in my novel The Time of Singing - titled For The King's Favor in the United States.

I set out to write about him after being made curious by a remark in a reference work mentioning that his career path was in many ways similar to that of the great William Marshal. They were both self-made men, if for different reasons.  Both had clawed their way up Fortune's ladder.  Both had been born in troubled times and had cut their political teeth at the courts of the Angevin kings and their familiars, Each of them was to marry an heiress in the king's gift, and wield great power that would help to shape England's future.
William Marshal is fortunate and almost unique in having a history of his life written shortly after his death and his deeds and life story have, in a greater part, been preserved for posterity.  Roger Bigod has no such history to track his days. Even so there are traces of his tale in chronicles and charters and these can be pieced together to make a larger body of knowledge.  Roger's son and heir, Hugh, married Matilda, William Marshal's eldest daughter and so we get a brief glimpse of him in the Histoire de Guillaume le Mareschal, where Roger is called 'a man who was never very slow in doing what was to his advantage and honour, when it was appropriate for him to do so.'
So, what was Roger Bigod's story?  What kind of man was he, and what sort of life did he live?

Roger Bigod has no known birth date or year, but was probably born some time between 1140 and 1146. He came from a family of obscure origins, although we know they were vassals of the Bishop of Bayeux prior to the Norman Conquest and haled from the Calvados region of Normandy.  An ancestor called Hugh Bigod who was very likely Roger's great grandfather was described by Wace in his Roman de Rou as the 'lord of Montfiquet' and was apparently a forester and a steward to Duke William of Normandy. 'He was small in stature, but very bold and valiant.'

Roger's ancestors followed their overlord to England and settled there, although they still held onto their Norman lands.  Roger's grandfather, also called Roger, was one of the mainstays of the Norman government. Although not at this stage made the Earl of Norfolk, he was sheriff of the county and was apportioned vast lands there and in Suffolk and Essex. The Bigod family (pronounced Bee-go) basically became the rulers of what had once been the kingdom of the East Angles. The first Roger Bigod founded a priory of Cluniac monks at Thetford and built the first castle at Framlingham.  He married twice and had three daughters and two sons by his wives. The eldest son, William, was born of the first marriage.  The younger son, Hugh, was born to his second wife, Alais.  When William drowned in the White Ship disaster the second son, Hugh, inherited everything.

Hugh Bigod does not have a good reputation in history. He had an eye to the main chance and a determination to get to the top which left little room for courtesy or finesse. By changing sides to his own advantage he did very well out of the civil war between King Stephen and Empress Matilda and at this time was created Earl of Norfolk. Like his father, Hugh Bigod married twice.  His first match was to Juliana de Vere, sister of the Earl of Oxford, and it was from this match that Roger Bigod II was born, probably at Framlingham.

For reasons now unknown, Hugh divorced Juliana at some point before the early 1150's and married instead Gundrada, sister of the Earl of Warwick.  By Gundrada, Hugh had two more sons - Hugh and William.

Roger, the firstborn, would have been raised at the family home of Framlingham, but would have been without his natural mother from mid-childhood and instead grew up with his stepmother Gundrada and his two half brothers. Roger would have been educated in the knightly arts and those pertaining to the pen.  From his later career we know that he had a sound knowledge of the law and was frequently used by the king as a judge on the bench and was familiar with the judicial workings of the country from young manhood.  Around the time that young Roger was receiving his grounding in the law, William Marshal was setting out to serve his uncle Patrick, Earl of Salisbury, as a hearth knight in Poitou.

In 1173, King Henry's sons rebelled against their father.  Roger's own father, Hugh, threw in his lot with the rebels.  Henry II had sought to limit Hugh's power in East Anglia and had a built a dominant castle at Orford to oppose Hugh's castles at Framlingham and Bungay.  Hugh was disgruntled at this restriction and rebelled against it with his sword. Roger Bigod took a different path to his father and remained loyal to King Henry.  It seems rather ironic that Hugh of Norfolk, now well into his seventies, supported Henry's heirs, whereas Roger, a young man, threw in his lot with the Henry II. We don't know when Roger and Hugh parted company, but father and son ended up on opposite sides of the divide. I suspect from what we know from the historical record that it was a case of genuine disagreement between them rather than crafty playing the odds.

Matters came to a head as the country rose in rebellion against King Henry.  The Earl of Leicester and Hugh of Norfolk forged an alliance and imported Flemish mercenaries to fight for their cause.  The royalists, led by the justiciar, Richard de Luci and by Robert de Vere, Earl of Oxford and Roger's uncle, were hard pressed but contained the rebellion. Having defeated and turned back the Scots who had joined in on the rebel side, de Luci turned his troops southwards to deal with the rebels in East Anglia who were now branching out into the Midlands. Roger joined the royalist army as they prepared to meet the advancing rebel contingent at the bridge over the River Lark at Fornham St Genevieve, in October 1176.  Roger was given the privilege of bearing the banner of Saint Edmund into battle. The Bigod family owed service to the Abbey of Ste Edmund, which at the time was a major place of pilgrimage with a fabulous shrine covered in beaten silver panels. To bear its banner was a great honour for the young man.

The royalist army was outnumbered four to one by the rebels.  However, the latter consisted of hired men, many of them out of work Flemish weavers.  They were not seasoned troops. To get to the bridge across the River Lark they had to cross marshy ground and the effort split and scattered their forces.  In contrast, the core of de Luci's army were hard-bitten troops.  They were joined by the locals, who were no more qualified to fight than the weavers, but their homesteads were at risk and they considered the enemy to be foreign parasites.

The battle was a disaster for the rebels and a triumph for the royalists.  The Earl of Leicester was taken prisoner and so was his wife, Petronella, who is supposed to have been captured wearing a hauberk. When the royalist men closed in on her, she supposedly stripped her rings and cast them into the river, saying that she would rather thrown them away than have them taken as booty.

Following the battle, the rebel leaders were taken prisoner.  Roger's father had to pay a fine of 500 marks and the defences at Framlingham, the seat of his earldom, were torn down and his castle at Bungay was seized.  A broken old man, he was dead by the spring of 1177.  There is a rumour that he died on crusade, but it seems to be unreliable and he likely died at home.

The moment he was dead, a dispute arose between his three sons as to who inherited what. Hugh had not divided his lands between them and the whole should have gone to Roger. However, Roger's stepmother contested his right, saying that her own eldest son was due all the land that Hugh Bigod had acquired while he was Earl of Norfolk.

The dispute came before King Henry, who played it to his advantage. Although the case was set in motion, he deferred judgement pending further investigation and kept the lands in his own administration.  However, recognising in Roger, a dynamic young man who could both fight and administer, he utilised Roger's skills and Roger was often present at court, involved in legal administration and military service.  Not to be outdone, his stepmother kept her cause alive by marrying Robert de Glanville, a court lawyer whose brother was the royal justiciar who ruled the country during Henry's absences.

Henry refused to grant Roger the Earldom of Norfolk that his father had held.  As well as milking the revenues of the earldom for himself, Henry was also being cautious.  While he valued Roger, he did not entirely trust him.  Having just dealt with the rebellion of his own sons, he was cautious about ambitious young men, especially one that had defied his own father, even if it had been on Henry's side.

Tomb of William Longespee, son of Ida de Tosney and Henry II.  Salisbury Cathedral
At this time, Henry had a new young mistress. Her name was Ida de Tosney and she was one of his wards and had probably become Henry's mistress in her mid teens. She bore Henry a son - William Longespee, future Earl of Salisbury. 

From charter evidence we know that Ida married Roger Bigod around Christmas time 1181.  Had Henry grown tired of his poppet and moved on? Was Ida a reward to Roger?  Was there a mutual attraction between the young would-be Earl of Norfolk caught in limbo, and this young royal concubine? We cannot say, although I have speculated in my novel The Time of Singing. We do know that Henry released several of the disputed Bigod manors to Roger as part of the bride's marriage portion. It is not recorded what Gundrada and her sons thought of this, but they can hardly have been thrilled about it. What is also known is that Roger and Ida's firstborn son, Hugh, was born within a year of the marriage, which was a fruitful one. Hugh was joined by siblings Marie and Marguerite, and three more brothers, Roger, William and Ralph.

Henry still had no intention of restoring the Earldom of Norfolk to Roger, but continued to work him hard.  Toward the end of Henry's reign in 1187, Roger was serving at the King's Court (Curia Regis) at Westminster and hearing pleas.

Henry died in 1189 and Richard I became King. Richard needed funds for his crusade and he also needed a firm government to rule the country during his absence. For a payment of a thousand marks he was willing to restore the Earldom of Norfolk to Roger and permit him to rebuild Framlingham Castle.

The shell of the castle still stands today with its thirteen great towers. Visitors can also view the remains of the hall where Roger and Ida lived in the early years of their marriage. The second, grander hall, where they lived in the later years of their marriage has largely gone, but small parts remain as a section of the visitor centre.  Ed Sheeran's song Castle on the Hill references Framlingham.

Framlingham Castle 
Once Roger  became Earl of Norfolk the hard work began in earnest.  Not only did he have a new castle to built and a growing family to raise, but Richard sent him out travelling on the judicial circuit, hearing pleases and making judgements up and down England.  The pipe roll of 1190-91 shows him busy in Essex, Hertfordshire, Norfolk, Suffolk, Cambridgeshire, Huntingdonshire and Wiltshire. During this time he was given custody of Hereford Castle.  In 1194 he was in Yorkshire, Cumberland, Westmorland and Lancashire.  In 1195 he covered nine counties with two more added in 1197.  On top of this he had to support the appointed justiciars in Richard's absence and try to keep the peace.  The King's brother, John, had made a play for his brother's throne and Richard's chancellor, William Longchamp who was opposing John, was hated by the barons. Roger, together with men such as William Marshal and the Archbishop of Rouen, had to find the strength, the tact and diplomacy to deal with the situation, maintain stability, and manage their own lives.

On his way home from crusade, Richard was captured crossing enemy territory in Austria and was taken prisoner by the Emperor of Germany.  A great ransom was negotiated but Richard had to provide sureties for the delivery of the ransom installments.  Various nobles from England came to his aid and Roger Bigod was on the shipping list.  There is no concrete evidence of his actual presence in Germany, but we do know he was preparing to go and it seems likely, given his knowledge of the law.

Back in England, Richard discovered that his brother John had risen against him - and then run away to France, leaving his castellans to ride it out as best they could. Richard swiftly dealt with the pockets of rebellion, including one at Nottingham. Roger Bigod was with the King at the taking of Nottingham Castle.

When Richard died in 1199 and John came to the throne, Roger offered him his loyalty. He visited Scotland for him as an envoy to King William and was in frequent attendance at court.  He helped the town of Ipswich in which he had a firm trading interest, to secure a charter of liberties from John in 1200.  For his assistance, Roger was admitted as the first foreign burgess of the town. In token payment he gave one ox, one bull, two quarters of corn and two of malt.  For this, he and his heirs were then exempt on paying tolls in the town on the corn and grain reaped on their demesne lands.

Roger once again went on the judicial circuit in John's reign in 1201, but this was his final time on Eyre - as the circuit was called.

Roger was a cautious, canny operator. His family had always been stewards to the royal family - also known as dapifers. One of Roger's hereditary tasks and of ceremonial prestige, was to set the first dish Before the king at official banquets and also to bear one of the ceremonial swords at the coronation. However, the Earl of Leicester thought he should have this privilege too and disputed the position. Roger had a think and decided to settle the matter amicably. He would renounce the title providing Leicester gave him ten knights' fees. Leicester agreed to do so and Roger gave up the stewardship. He did have some follow-up problems - getting Leicester to agree was the easy bit. Making him disgorge the manors was a different matter entirely. And even after Roger's death in 1221 the dispute rumbled on because Leicester had only paid seven and a half of the fees.

In 1207 Roger consolidated his family's prestige by marrying his heir, Hugh, to Mahelt, William Marshal's eldest daughter. When she became the last surviving Marshal child, the title of Marshal came down to her and was passed on to her eldest son, Roger.

Throughout the early and mid part of John's reign, Roger served the king faithfully. He answered the summons to battle campaigns, performed necessary stints at court and generally led a steady life. In 1213, the King visited him at Framlingham and all seemed well between them. However, as the political problems facing the King escalated and John's behaviour deteriorated Roger and his eldest son Hugh, has second thoughts about their support. At the time of the Magna Carta crisis in 1215, Roger renounced his support of John and joined the rebel barons. The rebels were probably delighted to have him among their number, because he was a consummate lawyer and could help oversee the wording and drafting of their demands. Why did Roger rebel against King John? Conventional history does not tell us. He didn't change sides until late in the day, but once he made up his mind, he stayed on the opposing side until after John was dead. Having turned rebel, he faced both excommunication and hostility toward his magnificent 13 towered castle at Framlingham.

Framlingham. The ruins of the hall where Roger and Ida would have lived. Norman chimneys are still in situ.
The Royal Army came to Framlingham in March 1216, and prepared to lay siege. Although the castle was a state-of-the-art fortress and the garrison boasted deadly crossbow men among its numbers, Roger obviously preferred not to test his defences, and after only two days, the fortress was yielded to King John by Roger's castellan. Roger himself was in London at the time, because his huntsman and dogs were apparently sent there to join him. Unfortunately, his young grandson was at Framlingham and was taken hostage by King John. This fact didn't bring Roger to heel and he continued in rebellion.

John died in October 1216 but Roger did not come to terms of peace with the royalist government until September 1217 when he was finally restored to his earldom and Framlingham was returned to the family. By yielding the castle rather than putting up a fight, Roger secured the inheritance for the next generation. His hostage grandson was also the grandchild of William Marshal and this probably helped to secure the child's safety during the ongoing hostilities, particularly after the Marshals was named regent following John's death.

Roger died somewhere between the end of April and August 1221. He was well into his 70s and his son Hugh had taken over many of the duties by then. His wife Ida had predeceased him because there is no mention of any provision being made for her widowhood. It is not known where she is buried.


Like his contemporary William Marshal, Roger Bigod has been born into an uncertain times during the regnal battle between Stephen and Matilda. He had learned statecraft at the court of Henry II and survived the often difficult reigns of Richard and John. History leaves us quiet traces of a man capable, firm and honourable. An understated man in his personality, who nevertheless, knew and appreciated the value of display. The thirteen towers at Framlingham Castle still stand today and also the remains of the stone hall he shared with Ida, a testament to both traits of Roger's personality unsung but shining. Visitors to the House of Lords will also find his statue looking down from the gallery in the company of William Marshal and his stepson William Longespee among others. His memory can also be found in less exalted places!




A short note of reference works.

The Bigod family: An Investigation into their Lands and Activities 1066 – 1306.
Ph.D. thesis by Susan A.J.Atkin University of Reading.

The Bigod Earls of Norfolk in the 13th century by Marc Morris/Boydell

History of William Marshal, volume 2/Anglo Norman text Society.

The History of the Norman People: Wace's Roman de Rou










St Honorat, Provence by Miranda Miller

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    From the glitz and yachts of Cannes it’s a fifteen minute boat ride to the tiny, idyllic island of St Honorat, one of the astonishingly unspoilt Lerins islands. On a sunny afternoon in late October it was almost deserted and we walked around its coastline in about forty minutes; clean blue water and rocks on our left and, on the other side, vineyards, rosemary bushes, jasmine, olive and pine trees, all of which gave out a deliciously intoxicating perfume. No hotels, cars or bikes are allowed on the island. We passed a few small ruined buildings, a well restored fort and a World War Two gun emplacement before we came to a simple church surrounded by beautifully tended gardens. There’s also a gourmet restaurant and a shop selling wine, liqueur and chocolate (at Côte d'Azur prices) made by the Cistercian monks who live in the monastery. There are now about thirty and we passed a few of them, dressed in cream and black robes and sandals, looking busy and healthy.









   The vines in the centre of the island are protected from the salty sea air by a fringe of pine trees. A large colony of pheasants shares this romantic island with the monks and, apparently, eat many of the Chardonnay grapes used to make the monks’ famous wines.

   The tourist brochures claim that monks have lived on this island since the 5th century but in fact there have been periods when they had to leave. St Honorat has had a turbulent history although it feels so sheltered and peaceful now.

   The monastery was founded by Honoratus, the son of a Roman consul, who converted to Christianity as a young man and later became Archbishop of Arles. He intended to live as a hermit on his remote island but was soon joined by disciples. According to legend, the island wasn’t always so hospitable. When Honoratus first arrived, it was overgrown by a dense forest full of poisonous snakes and spiders. After Honoratus and the other monks finished building their first monastery a tidal wave hit the island, obligingly washing away all these obnoxious creatures but leaving the monks safe in their stone tower,. This had become "an immense monastery" by 427, according to a contemporary writer. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, is thought to have studied at the monastery in the fifth century. St Honorat is rather like Lyndisfarne, in that it became a great centre of religion and culture after the Roman Empire collapsed (but it has a much better climate).


   The monks were constantly attacked by Saracen pirates and in about 732 many of the community, including the abbot, Saint Porcarius, were massacred. In medieval times, many pilgrims came to the island, attracted by its beauty and by La vie de Saint Honorat, a popular book by Raymond Féraud , who is variously described as both a monk and a troubadour.

   The fortified monastery was magnificently restored by Viollet-le-Duc in the 19th century. For centuries the monks needed to defend themselves because their island was in an important strategic position. This tower was built over many centuries , beginning in 1073, as a place of refuge for the monks in case of sudden attack. Inside, there are cloisters and chapels. At the end of the 15th century, the monumental center of the abbey shifted to this Monastery Tower and later the upper floors were occupied by soldiers who came on the orders of the king to defend the coastline.

   During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the island played an important role, in the wars between France and Spain. In 1635 St Honorat was captured by the Spanish and the monks were expelled but returned from exile two years later when the island was retaken by the French. The monastery continued to be attacked by the Spanish and the Genoese and the number of monks dwindled to four. One of the ruined buildings we passed on our walk was a Napoleonic oven used for heating cannon balls to a high temperature. 1707 the Lérins Islands were captured and occupied by the English navy, under the command of Sir Cloudesley Shovell.

   After the French Revolution the church and monastery were deconsecrated and the island was sold to a wealthy actress from Paris,Mademoiselle de Sainval . She lived there for twenty years and is thought to have been a lover of the painter Fragonard, who lived in Grasse, up in the hills behind Cannes.
   
In 1859 the island was bought by the Bishop of Fréjus, who established the present religious community there. Between 1942 and 1945 the Fort was occupied by Italian soldiers, and then by the German army, who built the gun emplacements we passed on our walk. In 1993 the city of Cannes bought the Fort and made it possible to visit this stunning island.




















iles de lerins (end)


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