Saturday, 28 March 2015

The 'Corsican Monster' in British propaganda

While British troops were away fighting the French during the Napoleonic Wars, a concerted war effort was being carried out on the home front. These years saw a proliferation of anti-Napoleonic propaganda in many forms. The government needed to whip up patriotic fervour not only to promote a general spirit of resistance against the French, but also to inspire volunteer recruits for the army and navy, and to persuade people that raised taxes were necessary for Britain's very preservation.

The genuine popular demand for anti-Napoleonic propaganda gave lyricists, dramatists and others a rich fund of material to work with. This was a good time in particular to be a talented caricaturist. Napoleon (also known as 'Boney' and 'the Corsican Monster') was lampooned in prints by all the leading illustrators of the day, including Gillray and Cruikshank. By all accounts, the publishers of these satirical prints did a roaring trade. One Frencémigré wrote to the journalist Jacques Mallet du Pan of the enthusiasm surrounding a new print, describing the 'madness' as 'people box their way through the crowd' to the print shop. Towards the end of the Napoleonic Wars, another French observer described 'a large crowd that had gathered in front of a shop on the Strand. The meeting was a noisy one and the agitation suggested that some people were actually boxing. We soon learned that a new caricature was the reason for all the upheaval. What a triumph for the artist!'

The caricatures themselves veered between bold assertions of Britain's superiority, staunchly supporting the regime, to personal attacks on Napoleon, condemning everything from his short stature (a complete myth, incidentally), to the colour of his skin (suspiciously dark), to his troubled private life. For the personal attacks, nothing was considered too vulgar, as the following few caricatures show.


The first night of my wedding, or, little Boney no match for an Arch Dutchess (1810)
Marie Louise: Still says sly old Hodge, says he, Great talkers do the least d'ye see. Well well there's one hope left - I shall quickly carry him to his Journeys end 
Napoleon: Mort de ma Vie I must I must brush off to Compiegne and order seperate Beds
This cartoon is clearly about Napoleon's alleged impotence. Marie-Louise, Napoleon's second wife, quotes from Charles Dibdin's comic opera, The Wives Revenged, while using a crown-shaped chamberpot as a footstoolNapoleon, looking rather the worse for wear, drinks some sort of reviving potion, has a bowl of 'cock-broth' on the table and plans to buy separate beds as soon as possible, presumably to save himself from the rampant sexual demands of his new wife.

 
The Arch Dutchess Maria Louisa going to take her Nap  
Marie-Louise: My dear Nap. your bed accommodations are very indifferent! Too short by a Yard! I wonder how Josephine put up with such things over as long as she did!!! 
Napoleon: Indeed, Maria I do not well understand you: the Empress Josephine who knew things better than I hope you do, never grumbled - Le Diable! I see I never will be able to get what I want after all!!!
This print mocks both Napoleon's alleged stature and the fact that his first wife, Josephine, was sexually experienced when he met her, whereas Marie-Louise was meant to be the blushing virgin who would give him a healthy heir, a role she fulfilled admirably.

More politically-oriented cartoons spanned a broad spectrum, ranging from the brash trumpeting of British superiority to more subtle takes on Napoleonic foreign policy.

TIDDY-DOLL the great French Gingerbread-Baker, drawing out a new Batch of Kings. - his Man, Hopping Talley, mixing the dough (before 1806)
This 1806 cartoon mocks Napoleon's political re-shaping of Europe. In the 'New French Oven for Imperial Gingerbread', Napoleon is baking three new rulers for the German states of Bavaria, Württemberg and Baden. Below the oven lies an 'Ash-Hole for broken Gingerbread', which includes Holland and Italy; they have been swept there by the 'Corsican Beson of Destruction'. The basket to the left contains 'true Corsican kinglings', referring to the family members Napoleon put on the thrones of other countries. The cupboard on the right contains drawers for 'Kings & Queens', 'Crowns & Sceptres' and even 'Suns and Moons', suggesting that Napoleon wants to reshape the universe itself.

Comparative anatomy or Bone-y's new Conscripts filling up the Skeletons of the Old Regiments (1813)

An accurate representation of the floating machine Invented by the French for invading England. and Acts on the principals of both Wind & Water Mills, carries 60-000 Men & 600 Cannon (c. 1805)

Little Boney gone to Pot (1814)
This caricature was drawn towards the end of Napoleon's career. It shows the defeated emperor exiled on the island of Elba with no-one to keep him company except the Devil. He sits on a chamberpot, the toy cannon is all that remains of his military ambitions, and he seems ready to commit suicide with the gun offered to him by his satanic tormentor.

Caricatures were, of course, not the only form of anti-Napoleonic propaganda in Britain. Handbills denouncing Napoleon and containing gruesome accounts of supposed French atrocities were manufactured almost daily and distributed throughout the kingdom, probably reaching even the illiterate sections of the population. Patriotic plays were put on to whip up national sentiment, and anti-French broadside ballads were common. Clergy thundered against the Corsican Monster from the pulpit, and millenarian preachers warned that Napoleon's evil empire was surely a sign of the end time.

Eighteenth-century English men and women were characterised as 'a polite and commercial people' in Paul Langford's contribution to the New Oxford History of England. When it came to anti-Napoleonic propaganda, the English were hardly polite, but some of them were certainly commercially-minded. Canny manufacturers took advantage of popular sentiment and produced all sorts of anti-French memorabilia. Perhaps the most remarkable example I have seen is a chamber-pot featuring a small bust of Napoleon in the middle. How edifying it must have been for those consumers who were now able to express patriotic sentiment even when exercising their most basic functions!

A chamberpot featuring a bust of Napoleon, c. 1805
(Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove)

~ By Caecilia Dance

Thursday, 12 February 2015

The remarkable Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu is one of the most remarkable characters of the eighteenth century, yet she remains relatively unknown outside eighteenth century scholarship. This is certainly undeserved, as she was an influential courtier, a prolific writer, and the author of the entertaining Turkish Embassy Letters, in which she wrote of her experiences living in Istanbul in 1717. The letters reveal a woman who was highly intelligent, witty, and open-minded. Her fascinating portrayals of Turkish life remain fresh due to the striking absence of popular European stereotypes and a willingness to take Ottoman elite society on its own terms.

Born Lady Mary Pierrepont in 1689, Mary spent her childhood educating herself from her father's extensive library at Thoresby Hall in Nottinghamshire. She suffered under a governess whom she despised, but managed to teach herself Latin, and corresponded with the bishops Gilbert Burnet and Thomas Tenison, who supplemented her learning. Her literary talent showed itself early on; by the age of fourteen, she had written two albums filled with poetry, a brief epistolary novel, and a prose-and-verse romance modelled after Aphra Benn's Voyage to the Isle of Love (1684).

By 1710, her father was looking around for a suitable match for Mary. She ended up with two serious suitors: Edward Wortley Montagu and the fantastically named Sir Clotworthy Skeffington. Mary's father put pressure on her to accept Skeffington, but seemingly desperate to avoid this fate, she eloped with Wortley Montagu, despite the fact that she had apparently fallen in love with another man. Mary and her husband lived a secluded life in the countryside for a while. She gave birth to a son, also named Edward, and Wortley Montagu kept himself busy climbing the political ladder. Eventually he was made MP for Westminster and a Lord Commissioner of the Treasury. To aid his career, the couple moved to London, where Mary's wit and beauty enabled her to shine in the most distinguished social circles. Among her friends she could number the most celebrated men and women of the day: Alexander Pope, John Gay, Mary Astell, Abbe Antonio Conti, and Sarah Churchill, Duchess of Marlborough, to name just a few.

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, early 18th century

Lady Mary is most famous for her Turkish Embassy Letters (published posthumously), and without them it seems unlikely that future generations would have remembered her at all. However, it was actually only by chance that Mary ended up accompanying her husband on his embassy to Istanbul. While she had been lying in bed with smallpox in 1715, someone had circulated her satirical court eclogues. These were taken to be an attack on Princess Caroline, and Mary was consequently disgraced. Following this, as she was unable to return to court, Mary accompanied her husband on an embassy to Turkey. The small family set out in 1716 and travelled a long and dangerous route across Europe, reaching Istanbul after seven months.

Lady Mary with her son Edward in 1717

Although Mary initially chafed at the fact that, as a woman, she was not allowed to move in mixed-gender social circles in Istanbul, she soon learnt how to circumvent such conventions. She came to emphasise in her letters that she, as a woman, could visit places which male travellers were not permitted to enter, such as the imperial harem and womens' bathhouses. She used the freedom the Turkish veils gave her - the drapery entirely concealed her identity - and explored the city's markets and mosques, visiting the Bosphorus, the Seraglio and its gardens, even managing to observe the army's military maneuvers. Learning Turkish meant that she could actively socialise with Turkish women, which was hardly common among European diplomats' wives. As a result, Mary felt able to mock the travel writers who were 'very fond of speaking of what they don't know', and scolded one correspondent for their letter being 'full of mistakes from one end 't'other', which came from reading old, inaccurate travel accounts of Turkey. Mary wrote:
'Tis a particular pleasure to me here to read the voyages to the Levant, which are generally so far removd from Truth and so full of Absurditys I am very well diverted with 'em. They never fail giving you an Account of the Women, which 'tis certain they never saw, and talking very wisely of the Genius of the Men, into whose Company they are never admitted, and very often describe Mosques, which they dare not peep into.
Mary was very interested in the position of women in the Ottoman Empire, frequently remarking upon it in her letters. She was impressed with what she observed of the status of (upper-class) Turkish women, finding the fact that women owned property in their own right particularly striking, given the situation of her female English contemporaries. She confided to her sister in April 1717:
Neither have they much to apprehend from the resentment of their Husbands, those Ladys that are rich having all their money in their own hands, which they take with 'em upon a divorce with an addition which he is oblig’d to give 'em. Upon the whole, I look upon the Turkish women as the only free people in the Empire…'Tis true their Law permits [the men] four wives, but there is no Instance of a Man of Quality that makes use of this Liberty, or a woman of Rank that would suffer it.

European print of a Turkish woman, early 18th century

She was keen to expose the common travellers' myth which maintained that Turkish women spent all day engaged in amorous dalliances. She insisted that the female bathhouse, so often viewed by European men (who had never entered one) as a haven for sordid sexual practices, was merely 'the Women's coffee house, where all the news of the Town is told, Scandal invented, etc'. Although the ladies were 'in the state of nature, that is, in plain English, stark naked', she found nothing improper about the scene, saying that 'there was not the least wanton smile or immodest gesture amongst them'. Mary recounts a particularly amusing incident in the bathhouse in which a group of Turkish women, horrified by the sight of the corset she was wearing, exclaimed that 'the husbands in England were much worse than in the East, for [they] tied up their wives in little boxes, the shape of their bodies'. She could not, however, entirely avoid confirming some European prejudices when describing a dance performed by the maids of a high-ranking official's wife, which she was invited to watch:
Nothing could be more artfull or more proper to raise certain Ideas, the Tunes so soft, the motions so Languishing, accompany'd with pauses and dying Eyes, half falling back and then recovering themselves in so artfull a Manner that I am very possitive the coldest and most rigid Prude upon Earth could not have look’d upon them without thinking of something not to be spoke of.

Jean Paul Flandrin's 1842 work, Odalisque with a slave, was based on a
description which Lady Mary Wortley Montagu gave of a nude Turkish woman, but
he exaggerates the erotic elements which Lady Mary was so keen to downplay, in her
rejection of one-sided traditional European portrayals of voluptuous Turkish women.

Yet notwithstanding her considerable rehabilitation of Turkish women from their dubious reputation in Europe, Mary was neither naive nor overly romantic about the situation of even upper-class women in Turkey. She recounts incidents of honour killings committed when a wife was found to be unfaithful, and describes the immense social stigma attached to women who could not conceive. She wrote that 'in this country 'tis more despicable to be marry'd and not fruitfull, than 'tis with us to be fruitfull before Marriage', and describes the 'Quackerys' which Turkish women resorted to in order to 'avoid the Scandal of being past Child bearing'. Mary was herself pregnant while in Istanbul, and she quipped to Anne Thistlethwayte that although she was rather worried about her approaching confinement, she was 'in some degree comforted by the glory that accrues to me from it'.

An embassy such as Wortley Montagu's would generally last around twenty years, but due to a combination of national and international problems, and Wortley's own incompetence, he was recalled prematurely in 1717. Upon the family's return to England, Mary divided her time between the education of her children and producing a considerable literary output of letters, essays, poems and fairy tales. Having seen the benefits of smallpox inoculation as practiced in Turkey, she inoculated her own children and worked vigorously for the introduction of smallpox vaccination in England. After some initial success, the campaign faltered due to widespread distrust of the practice among the medical establishment. Meanwhile, she and Edward drifted apart, and in 1739 she left England, purportedly to travel, but in reality in order to meet a certain Count Algarotti. Though never formally dissolved, the marriage effectively ended at this point, and Mary lived abroad for most of the rest of her life, writing to her children and friends from Italy and France.

Mary Wortley Montagu, pictured in Turkish dress in 1756

In January 1762, tired and ill, she returned to England, and people rushed to see 'that extraordinary Phenomenon' whose reputation had preceded her. Mary was suffering from the advanced stages of breast cancer and was living in somewhat straitened circumstances, but Horace Walpole told friends that she was still very lively. Her last months were spent in receiving friends and admirers, and she died in August 1762. Her letters from Turkey were published in May 1763 and met with immediate success. However, the publication was unauthorised, and Lady Bute, Mary's daughter, was furious and concerned about the effect this publication might have on the family's position. To avoid any further possibility of such scandal, Lady Bute burned all of her mother's diaries, which stretched from her marriage to death. In doing so, Lady Bute robbed posterity of what would have been a fascinating collection of sources. 

~ By Caecilia Dance

Friday, 19 December 2014

Infertility in Samuel Pepy's England

I recently came across a striking passage in Samuel Pepy's diary in which he receives advice on how to get his wife Elizabeth pregnant. At the time of writing, July 1664, he and Elizabeth had been married for eight years, but they remained childless. While attending a dinner on 26th July, Samuel asked the women present if they could give him any advice on how to overcome his and his wife's apparent infertility. The women "freely and merrily" gave the following precautions as a certain means of conceiving:
1. Do not hug my wife too hard nor too much. 2. Eat no late suppers. 3. Drink juice of sage. 4. Tent and toast. 5. Wear cool Holland-drawers. 6. Keep stomach warm and back cool. 7. Upon my query whether it was best to do it at night or morn, they answered me neither one nor another, but when we have most mind to it. 8. Wife not to go too straight-laced [with her corset]. 9. Myself to drink Mum [a kind of beer] and sugar. 10. Mrs Ward did give me to change my plate. The 3rd, 4th, 6th, 7th and 10th they all did seriously declare and lay much stress upon them, as rules fit to be observed indeed, and especially the last: to lie with our head where our heels do, or at least to make the bed high at feet and low at head.
Sadly for the Pepys, Elizabeth never did get pregnant. One diary entry from September 1664 reveals that when Samuel returned home after dinner with a friend, "I find my wife not well - and she tells me she thinks she is with child; but I neither believe nor desire it". Whether this shows genuine resignation or a display of bravado, we will probably never know.

Elizabeth Pepys
Samuel Pepys in 1666



















But how typical were the remedies suggested to Pepys in the wider context of 17th century England? The womens' recommendation that the couple should have sex whenever they both feel like it is unsurprising, as contemporary opinion held that it was necessary for both partners to enjoy sex in order to conceive. Supposed aphrodisiacs were therefore touted as helpful in overcoming infertility. Not only did aphrodisiacs stir up lust; they were also thought to have physical effects on the body which made both men and women more fertile. Many more foods were considered aphrodisiacs than today. Aristotle's master-piece (1684) listed:
...among such things as are inducing and stirring up thereto, are...Hen-eggs, Pheasants, Woodcocks, Gnatsappers, Thrushes, Black Birds, young Pigeons, Sparrows, Partridge, Capons, Almonds, Pine-Nuts, Raysons, Currants, all strong Wines moderately taken; especially those made of the Grapes of Italy; but Erection is chiefly caused and provoked by Satyrium Eringoes, Cresses, Erysimum, Parsnips, Artichoaks, Turnips, Rapes, Asparagus, Candid Geinger, Gallinga, Acorns buried to Powder, and drank in Muscadel, Scallions, Sea Shell-Fish, &c.
Still life with oysters ~ Osias Beert (1610). Oysters and olives
were commonly believed to be aphrodisiacs in 17th century England

Aphrodisiacs aside, infertility treatment was strongly influenced by the reigning humoural theory. It was commonly held that all disorders proceeded from an imbalance of the four humours: black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood. Consequently, much advice was focused on balancing the humours in the womb, by avoiding excessive cold, moisture, dryness or warmth.

Of course, medical practitioners of dubious quality peddled secret elixirs and the like, which were supposed to provide sure-fire remedies for infertility. These were frequently advertised on handbills (advertisements of one or two sides). Remedies were, however, not left to the quacks alone. Women shared knowledge amongst themselves; many recipes for concoctions to cure infertility can be found in accounts and recipe books of the period.

These remedies may seem laughable now, but apparent infertility was extremely distressing for women in 17th century England. Pepys' experience would seem to bely the common view that infertility was always believed to be a woman's problem; in the diary, he recognises that the problem could be his as well. Yet women often bore the brunt of the blame. If a woman failed to have children, she had failed her primary purpose in life. Seemingly infertile women risked being mocked and even shunned by their contemporaries, and some women must have at times empathised with Rebecca when she cried to her husband Jacob, "Give me children, or else I die" (Genesis 30:1).


~ Caecilia Dance