the vampire by philip burne-jones (1897). the model is actress mrs patrick campbell; burne jones was the oldest son of pre-raphaelite painter edward burne-jones.
two self portraits by dante gabriel rossetti: the first dated dated october 1861, the second 1870. he was born on 12 may 1828 and is best known as both a founding member of the pre-raphaelite movement and arguably it’s definitive artist. in later life he developed a lush, sensuous painting style, characterized by medieval revivalism, elegant hands, flowing hair, and heavy allegory. he was also a prolific poet, and the husband of pre-raphaelite artist and model elizabeth siddal.
fanny cornforth, pre-raphaelite model and dante gabriel rossetti’s housekeeper until his death, died on 24 february 1909. she is pictured here as the sitter for rossetti’s fair rosamund (1861) and photographed in 1863. cornforth is often the subject of scholarly bias, owing in part to her status as rossetti’s longtime mistress and in part to her figure, which was fuller and more lush than the traditional sylph-like femininity typically associated with pre-raphaelite women. moreover, cornforth was working class, working as a servant from at least 1851: william michael rossetti wrote that “she had no charm of breeding, education, or intellect”. however, cornforth appeared in many of rossetti’s most famous works, including bocca baciata, and was the first person to open a dedicated museum to rossetti’s work after his death.
I love stuff like this. Didn’t a tribe in Africa send America some cows after 9/11? Like this is holy and the most valuable thing we have. We hear your suffering and want to do anything in our power to help
It was not a potato famine. The famine didn’t happen because of the potato yield failing. Ireland was actually producing more than enough food. However it was almost all land owned by British landowners, who took all of the food out of the country to sell in UK. Potato was what the Irish farmers ate, because it was cheep and could be produced in worst parts of the land, where more profitable food couldn’t be grown. When there were no longer potatoes, the decision for the farmers was to either starve and sent the food as rent to the landlords or loose their homes and then starve.
The British government was unwilling to do anything for two reasons. First was the laissez-faire capitalistic ideology, that put the rights of property owners to make profits above human lives. Rent freeze was unthinkable and they even were unwilling to do proper relief efforts as free food would lower the cost of food. The second reason was disdain for the Irish, and the thought that they were “breeding too much” and the famine was a natural way to trim down the population, aka genocidal reasoning.
This is why it’s important to stress it was not a potato famine. The potato blight was all over Europe but only in Ireland there was a famine. The reasons behind it had nothing to do with potatoes and everything to do with the British.
Apparently what made Choctaw want to offer relief to Irish was the news about the Doolough Tragedy. Hundreds of starving people were gathered for inspection to verify they were entitled to recieve relief. The officials would for *some reason* not do that and instead left to a hunting lodge 19 kilometers away to spend the night and said to the starving people they would have to walk there by morning to be inspected. The weather conditions were terrible and many of them died completely needlessly during the walk thorough day and night.
This apparently reminded the Choctaw of their own very recent (and much more explicit and bigger scale) experiences of ethnic cleansing, where they were forcibly relocated. It was basically a death march and thousands of Choctaw died from the terrible conditions also completely needlessly.
In 2015 a memorial named Kindred Spirits was installed in city of Midleton in Ireland to commemorate the Choctaw donation.
“From hot-air balloons to perpetual-motion machines, Susan Branson takes us on a delightful tour of the technological marvels of the nineteenth century. More importantly, Scientific Americans offers us a smart analysis of the ways popular amazement translated into the shaping of American national identity. It is a wise and lively book.”
As a (very low grade) Franklin Expedition nerd, I thoroughly recommend this both as an introduction for non-nerds, and also to minor nerds who will probably find things that they didn’t already know in there. It’s more the story of the search than the expedition - but that tells the story of the different theories about what happened to the expedition as part of it. It was written after the Erebus was found, but before the Terror was found, though that doesn’t really affect the narrative - it’s going to take years for the archaeology of those ships to be looked at, synthesised and published (it took over 30 years for the archaeology of the Mary Rose to be fully published - and the preservation there was only a third of a smaller ship). It also covers well the current politics around the ships and the expedition.
One of the things that surprised me was that the “Peglar Papers” - some of the very little written material from the expedition, which are very difficult to interpret as they are obviously personal notes not intended for others to be reading - have not had any sort of imaging analysis to see if more text can be read than can be read with the naked eye. Nice discussion of the papers here.
This book has a very boring cover, so the image is from the Whores of Yore archive - if you have any interest in the history of sex/sexuality etc you should be reading that site and following on twitter.
This is a really good examination of the issues that includes issues that were around class (some reforms to industrial working conditions were demanded because of the perceived danger of working class female sexuality, which according to upper-middle class men needed to be separated and controlled from working class men). For some middle-class women, ‘positive’ social reform was highly bound up in ‘purity’ movements, which put them on the side of the repressive forces of society, even as they felt that they were on the opposite side.
It’s quite in-depth, and a little dry, but well worth the effort.
It is frankly astounding that any of my ancestors survived the 19th century. Even when you get past the disease, malnutrition and all the other things, there was all the actual poisoning going on. Everything from wallpaper to clothing, to children’s clothes and sweets contained arsenic; some of the exposure was accidental (arsenic often came as white powder, which could be mistaken for flour or other foods), but others were from its deliberate use as a colouring (and while green was the most common, plenty of others contained arsenic).
The Arsenic Century takes an overview of this, covering all the main exposures, and telling the stories of particular events; it’s a slight pity that there are no colour illustrations in something which talks about pigment a lot. Bitten by Witch Fever on the other hand is gloriously illustrated (though with far less text), with the majority being pages of reproductions of the arsenical wallpapers:
The two books complement each other very well, and I’d recommend both.
This amateur historian has a soft spot for Shelley, who writes fantastic poems and whose life was chock full of the sort of absurd happenings that make this amateur historian laugh aloud.
Her personal favorite has to be when Percy Shelley wrote The Necessity of Atheism. It is difficult to understand what, if anything, was going through Shelley’s head when he decided to send this treatise to a bunch of bishops and the heads of all the Oxford colleges.
He apparently expected for his theories to be accepted and widely publicized if he was right, or some kindly ecclesiastical or academic official would draw him aside and give him empirical evidence for the existence of God if he was wrong.
First things first, here are all those elusive postal details you’ve been seeking. Before the introduction of the prepaid penny post (Post Office Act of 1765) and adhesive stamps (6 May 1840), postage was usually collected from the recipient. Rather than paying in advance, one paid on delivery. In order to save their correspondents paying postage, some people had their letters “franked”. A frank was the signature of a Member of either House of Parliament, who had to write both the address on the envelope as well as his signature in his own hand. Thus postage was free.
Envelopes had been developed in the 1830s, but did not catch on until the Great Exhibition of 1851, when Jeremiah Smith displayed his gummed envelopes. Still, the use of envelopes in correspondence was not general until well into the 1860s, with most people preferring the old fashion of folding over the sheet of paper and fastening the flaps with a wafer, a little disc of gum and flour, which was moistened and pressed down with a seal. Quill pens were used long after steel nibs had been introduced. Quills soon lost their point and needed cutting with a sharp “pen knife,” so the art of cutting a nib was one of the first things taught at school.
The penny post routes operated six days a week in most cases. Rates of postage at a uniform penny were lower than those charged by most private carriers, some of whom charged fees as high as 4d to take letters from the nearest post town. Many private posts charged for both letters delivered and those collected for onward transmission by the general post. The official penny post charged only for letters delivered, a system which allowed for posting boxes to be provided at certain points. Letters were delivered to any house on the penny post route, and in most villages receiving houses were set up where people in outlying areas could collect their mail. In 1830, the letter rates for the penny post were 4d for 15 miles, 5d for 20 miles, and thence according to a sliding scale to 1s for a limit of 300 miles. A letter from London to Liverpool cost 11d, to Bristol 10d, to Aberdeen 1s 3d, and to Glasgow 1s 2d. Packages weighing an ounce paid four times the ordinary rate, and for every quarter of an ounce in excess an additional sum was charged. Letters sent to addresses within the same post town were delivered free of charge. In the late 1880s, commercially-produced picture postcards became all the rage and the Post Office instituted a half-penny fee for the handling of these.
A late posting fee was sometimes charged and was meant to deter letters from being posted at times inconvenient to official duties, this usually being a penny. Private postal boxes were available but not in widespread use at the beginning of the 19th century. In 1837, the Bromley postmaster had six subscribers from whom he received a guinea each. The use of such boxes was explained in The Second Report on Postage (1838): “Persons having Private Boxes enjoy generally the advantage of receiving their letters as soon as the window is open and the letter-carriers despatched, but which means, those Subscribers who reside at any distance from the post office obtain their letters so much earlier than they would do by the ordinary Delivery; they have also the opportunity of ascertaining at once whether there are any letters for them, and are usually allowed credit by the Postmaster, accounts being kept of their postage.”
The Postmaster could also realize extra revenue by the sale of money orders. From 1798 on, the Money Order Office was run by three partners, including Daniel Stow, Superintendent President of the Inland Office. Originally, money orders were offered in order to enable soldiers and sailors to send funds home to their families. In 1861, the Post Office Savings Bank was opened, with millions opening small savings accounts over the next forty years.
The Twopenny Post served London and its suburbs. There were six collections and deliveries daily in London, and three in the suburbs, letters being posted at various receiving offices during the daytime, while the last collection was made by a postman who went through the streets ringing a bell. There were two kinds of postmen in London, the General, who delivered the post from all parts of the country, and the Twopenny Postman, who had only to do with local mail. Both wore much the same style of uniform – a scarlet coat, and a shining top hat adorned with a gold band.
During the 17th and 18th centuries, postmasters had also been innkeepers due to the fact that they were responsible for finding post boys and horses, providing stabling, etc. Once recognized mails came into being, this was no longer necessary, and it was felt that inns provided little security for the mail bags. In October 1792, the Post Office declared itself against the appointment of innkeepers, as separate rooms for postal business were rarely provided and business might be conducted in the bar. By March 1836, only one post town in the entire country had an innkeeper as postmaster. More common were post offices run by druggists, stationers, grocers, news agents, and booksellers. Women could be appointed postmistresses or allowed to take over the concern upon the death of their husbands. Of the twenty-nine Kentish post towns in March 1836, four had postmistresses. One of these was the bustling Ramsgate office, the salary of which was roughly 178 pounds per annum. When a postmistress married, it was the ruling of the Post Office that she must give up the appointment, but it could be transferred to her husband. At Faversham, the widow of Mr. Plowman, the late postmaster, took over upon his death, but in 1800 she married Andrew Hill, who became postmaster in her place. After Mr. Hill died in July of the same year, Sara was reappointed.
Fast mail coaches were introduced in 1784, with recognized mail routes springing up across the land soon after. There were two types of fast coach upon the road, and with the exception of the wealthy, who traveled in their own carriage or by post-chaise, and of the very poor, who used wagons or slow night coaches, all passenger traffic was done by mail or stage coach. Stage and mail coaches were alike in build, carrying four inside passengers and ten or twelve outside. Mail bags were piled high on the roof, and luggage was carried in large receptacles called boots at either end of the vehicle. The box seat by the coachman, for which an extra fee was charged, was considered the most desirable and was frequently occupied by someone interested in horse flesh. Mail coaches, which were subsidized or owned by the Post Office, were painted uniformly, the lower part of the body being chocolate or mauve, the upper part as well as the fore and hind boots black, and the wheels and under carriage a vivid scarlet. The Royal arms were emblazoned on the doors, the Royal cipher painted in gold upon the fore boot, and the number of the vehicle on the hind boot. The panels at each side of the window were embellished with various devices, such as the badge of the Garter, the rose, shamrock or thistle.
The departure of the mails was one of the most exciting sights in London. On its outward journey, each coach collected passengers from whatever inn the vehicle was horsed at and then dashed ‘round at 8 p.m. to St. Martin’s le Grand to collect the mail. Coaches were called by name to receive their bags, and the crash of the lid of the boot locking down on the special mails was the signal for each coach to speed away. Fast stage and mail coaches made their journeys in about the same time. It took five hours to travel from London to Brighton, two more to Southampton, seventeen hours to Exeter, nineteen to Manchester and twenty-one to Liverpool. This worked out to an average speed of 10 miles an hour. The coaches, besides galloping against each other, were always running against the clock, for lateness was punished by heavy penalties and loss of credit. The half-thoroughbred horses were kept in peak condition and during their stage of seven or eight miles were worked at fever pitch. The steadier wheelers were meant to act as a check upon their leaders, but more often than not the driver gave the wheelers their heads and the whole team sped along at a gallop.
In truly severe weather, the sufferings of the outside passengers was terrible. Once, when the Bath mail changed horses at Chippenham one March morning, two of the outside passengers were found frozen to death, a third dying later. Post boys were frequently lifted out of their saddles near the point of death. The winter of 1836 was one of the worst on record, with Christmas storms closing all coach roads for several days. On December 26th, the Manchester, Holyhead, Chester, and Halifax mails were all stuck in snow drifts at Hockley Hill, near Dunstable, within a few yards of one another, and throughout the country, stories of overturned coaches and dogged heroism on the part of coachmen and guards were recounted. In one instance, a guard, leaving his snowbound coach, carried out instructions by taking the mails forward on horseback. Nine miles farther on he sent the horse back but pushed on himself. Next morning he was found dead a mile or two up the road, with the mail bag still tied round his neck.
Change of horses at each fresh stage was made quickly. Hostlers and stable boys were allowed a minute in which take out the old horses and harness up a fresh team, though some could manage the job in fifty seconds. Seats on a coach had to be secured in advance at the inn from which it started or where it stopped on the road. The traveler’s name was entered into a book and half the fare taken as a deposit. The fares by stage coach worked out to 2 ½ to 3d a mile outside, 4-5d a mile for inside passengers. Mails coaches were dearer, averaging from 4 1/2d to 5d for outsides, 8-10d for insides.
The coachman wore beneath his coat a crimson traveling shawl topped by a long waistcoat of a striped pattern, and over that a wide-skirted green coat ornamented with large brass buttons. Usually he wore on his head a wide-brimmed, low-crowned brown hat. He wore knee cord breeches, painted top boots, and a copper watch chain. The real responsibility for the coach rested with the guard who, in the case of mail coaches, had the added care of guarding the letter bags. In their red coats, with the gleaming brass horn at the ready, they collected fares from those who joined the coach on the road, saw that the schedule was kept to, and were entrusted with the execution of commissions. In case of accident, the guard looked after the mails and the passengers, carrying the former by horse and arranging for a fresh coach for the latter if necessary. They were accustomed to journeys of up to 120-150 miles at a stretch and received about 10s a week in wages. Inside passengers were supposed to tip the guards 2s 6d, the outsides 2s, and the guard collected further tips for handling luggage or running errands.
Travelling post chaise was decidedly the favored means. The chaise was a light and comfortable vehicle with two, or more commonly four, wheels drawn by two or four horses ridden by post boys. For great haste, four horses with two postilions were used. As with a mail coach, the horses were changed at stages. There was room for only two passengers in a post-chaise, but most carriages had a dickey, or platform, at back for a groom. Principal turnpike gates out of London were found in Knightsbridge at the corner of Gloucester Road, in Kensington at the corner of Earls Court Road, at Marble Arch, Notting Hill, King’s Cross, City Road near Old Street, Shoreditch, Commercial Road, Kennington Gate, and three more in the Old Kent Road.
An important London coaching inn was the Golden Cross in Charing Cross, near Nelson’s Column before 1830, when it was moved to face Craven Street. Coaches left here bound for Gloucester, Cheltenham, South Wales, Chester, Liverpool, Hastings, Dover, Stroud, Brighton, Halifax, and other points. The Saracen’s Head stood at the top of Snow Hill, next to St. Sepulchre’s Church, with coaches leaving for many parts of England and Scotland. During the eighty years before its demolition in 1868, the inn had been kept by members of the Mountain family, the most prominent being Sarah Ann Mountain, who carried on after her husband’s death in 1816. She dispatched thirty coaches from her inn each day and set a record with her Tally Ho! to Birmingham. She also built coaches for sale at 110 - 120 guineas each. The Tally Ho! served Canterbury, Liverpool, and Birmingham, and was one of nine coaches on the London to Birmingham route. Its team of four horses was changed at each of the ten stops made between London and Birmingham. The Tally Ho! normally made the 109-mile trip in eleven-and-a-half hours, traveling at an average speed of 9.5 mph. During the famous London to Birmingham race, which took place on May Day, 1830, the Tally Ho! made coaching history, setting a record by covering the route in seven-and-a-half hours, travelling at an average speed of 14.5 mph. It should be noted that the coach carried no passengers during the race.
The Swan With Two Necks was the hub of much activity during the 17th and 18th centuries, serving London as a coaching, parcel, and wagon office. The name is derived from Swan with Two Nicks, the nicks being the mark by which the birds of the Vintner’s Company were identified. The inn was a terminus for northbound coaches, and stood at the corner of Aldermanbury, where the Guildhall was and is located, with the Wax Chandler’s Hall being on the south side of the street. The inn was demolished in 1845 when Lad Lane, St. Anne’s Lane, Maiden Lane, and Cateaton Street were all widened during the building of Gresham Street.
William Chaplin, the “Napoleon of coach proprietors,” was born at Rochester, Kent, in 1787, son of a coachman-proprietor, and he himself started off driving the Dover Union. Marriage to the sister-in-law of James Edwards, “one of the largest proprietors on the Kentish routes,” proved useful. He and Edwards allied in many ventures in Kent. He came to horse more and more coaches until, by 1827, he owned between three- to four-hundred animals and the Spread Eagle, Gracechurch Street. By 1835, he owned twelve-hundred horses and the Swan with Two Necks. In 1838, he horsed sixty-eight coaches with eighteen-hundred horses, employing two-thousand men. He also acquired the Cross Keys and the White Horse, Fetter Lane, and opened the Spread Eagle coach office in Regent Circus. Chaplin was said to have had “immense energy, an equable temperament and great sagacity,” and also, “a very good knowledge of the animals he governed as well as the bipeds with whom he was associated”. Nevertheless, Chaplin one day had a run in with George Denman, toll collector at Kensington Gate, who issued Chaplin a toll ticket bearing the improper amount. A fight broke out during which Denman took hold of Chaplin’s horses, prompting him to use his whip upon the toll keeper. Chaplin was later fined 12s and court costs. As with most well-to-do businessmen, Chaplin was known to grumble about the actual profits he made, stating in 1827, “I have not a shadow of a doubt that, were the coaching account of the nation kept regularly, the whole is decidedly a loss and the public have the turn.”
