A selection of answers to questions posed by readers of AskHistorians. Refreshed most weeks, with the latest postings at the top.
Or go here for more answers from Mike.
Short index to questions (the lower the number, the further down the column the answer will be found)
 How did the sack of Guangzhou (Canton) in 879, at the end of the Tang dynasty, affect transoceanic trade between the Tang empire and Abbasid caliphate?
 I was reading about the history of the stapler and found that the first stapler was made for King Louis XV. “The ornate staples it used were forged from gold, encrusted with precious stones, and bore his Royal Court’s insignia.” Is this true? Does the stapler still exist?
 Why can’t I find very much information about the 14th Century Black Death in Asia?
 In Les Misérables, Victor Hugo claims that children were kidnapped during the reign of Louis XV, and rumours were whispered of the King’s ‘purple baths’. What is Hugo referring to here, and would the rumours have been common knowledge to a reader at the time?
 Do we know of any cases in the Catholic Church when the Advocatus Diaboli (or Devil’s Advocate) successfully argued against someone becoming a saint?
 Did Britain fund and direct the 1801 assassination of Tsar Paul?
 Did Coca-Cola produce a clear version of Coke for General Zhukov that could be disguised as vodka? If so, for how long was this going on?
 Why did Poland have lower rates of Black Death than other European countries during the 1300s?
 What is the truth about “getting shanghaied”? Was there such a thing as a bar in 19th-century San Francisco with a chair that dumped drugged people down a trapdoor to kidnap them and force them into the sailing life?
 During the New York Draft Riots (1863), supposedly the New York Times defended their office from the mob with 2 Gatling guns. Where did they obtain these guns and ammunition and how did they turn away the mob?
 Is it true that Henry VIII feared being attacked so much he had himself bricked into his bedroom every night?
 On the giants of Patagonia
 Whatever happened to the hotel detective?
 At any point between the end of WWI and the end of WWII was there ever a rise of supernatural beliefs in Japan?
 Why did Hatshepsut’s successors attempt to proscribe her memory?
 What was the murder rate during the medieval period?
 I am a hot-blooded young British woman in the Victorian era, hitting the streets of Manchester for a night out with my fellow ladies and I’ve got a shilling burning a hole in my purse. What kind of vice and wanton pleasures are available to me?
 Did British criminals in the 1700s and 1800s really worship a deity called the Tawny Prince? If so, what were the origins of this deity?
 How bad would it have smelled in a medieval city?
 What exactly were the relics on which Harold Godwinson swore his oath to William of Normandy?
 What prompted the first emperor of Qin to have hundreds of scholars buried alive and their works burned?
 Were the pyramids still kept in repair at the time of Cleopatra?
Q: How did the sack of Guangzhou (Canton) in 879, at the end of the Tang dynasty, affect transoceanic trade between the Tang empire and Abbasid caliphate?
A: You’re asking about the sack of one of the most important cities in China, which took place in the middle of a rebellion that played a major part in shaping the history of the Middle Kingdom for several hundred years to come. So it’s unfortunate that the sources that survive for the events of 879 (not 878, as Wiki has it) are not only pretty meagre, but frequently contradictory.
For all these reasons, constructing a full answer worthy of this question is going to take some time – so I’ll start with the short version.
Guangzhou (which some readers will be more familiar with under another name, Canton, or possibly in the Wade-Giles version of its name, Kuang-chou) was an important trading city in this period, and it sat at one end of what was, for a time, a major maritime trading route running all the way to the Persian Gulf.
The port was large and wealthy for more than 100 years – until the massacre you mention, directly followed by the fall of the Tang dynasty and then the onset of a long period of civil war in China, severely curtailed the transoceanic trade and reduced Guangzhou to the status of a comparative backwater for several more centuries.
While it lasted, however, the trade between the Abbasid caliphate and Tang China was based largely on ceramics. We know this because large quantities of bowls, dishes and jars and have survived to be found on several important shipwrecks of the period, as well as in archaeological digs in what is now Iran. The trade did also feature other luxury goods such as silks, mirrors and Tibetan musk, but these aren’t always as durable, so we have less archaeological evidence to help us determine their relative importance.
Unlike the Europeans, whose later trading efforts were often stymied by lack of Chinese demand for western products, the Arab merchants of the Abbasid caliphate had plenty of luxury products of their own to trade. By exploiting the diverse riches of the many lands bordering the Indian Ocean, and ranging as far south as the gold port of Sofala, in what is now Mozambique, it seems that they were able to trade on more or less equal terms with the Tang.
As for the question of how Guangzhou survived and prospered despite experiencing several different sacks, I’d say that part of the answer was that these events took place across quite a few trading generations (there was more than a century between the two major disasters that you reference); part was that the normal run of maritime dangers in this period, which certainly include piracy, typhoons and shipwreck, would have loomed a lot larger in the minds of the merchants of the time than the occasional one-off massacre; and part was to do with the nature of the first of the two sacks of the city, which was probably the work of the merchants of Guangzhou themselves…
We’re not quite certain about this last point; accounts differ. All of which brings us on to…
The two Chinese dynastic histories that cover the late Tang state were both compiled more than 200 years after the events they describe, and they contain little more than a passing mention of what happened at Guangzhou – which was then probably the largest port in southern China. Our main Arab source, in the meantime – which is where the estimates of six-figure deaths is drawn from – was compiled by a man who never left the Abbasid caliphate, so it’s probably best to begin this response with an acknowledgement that the figure of 120,000 deaths cannot be proven, and is almost certainly best understood (like most medieval figures of this sort) to mean simply that “a lot of people died.” Since the Chinese sources that we have offer no detailed discussion at all of what happened at Guangzhou, it wouldn’t even be safe to presume that the rebels specifically targeted foreign merchants. I’ll come back to this point later.
As for that Arabic source I mentioned, it is Accounts of China and India, a book of akhbar – a compilation of oral accounts, supposedly taken down verbatim but more likely polished by the compiler – set down in two distinct parts, about a century apart. The earlier portion that we are most interested in is traditionally attributed to Sulaymān al-Tājir (that is, “Sulaiman the Merchant”), though he was at most only one of a number of travellers who apparently contributed accounts to an anonymous compiler. Although there are quibbles about some of the material contained in this portion of the Accounts, internal evidence suggests that much of the book does rest solidly on material contributed by merchants who had travelled to China and who had ranged almost as far north as the Korean peninsula.
From the particular perspective of this question, however, we have to note one significant problem with the Arab sources: the material contributed by Abbasid travellers who we can be fairly confident had actually visited China dates to c.851, before the sack of Guangzhou. The information we have about the sack of the city itself comes from the second part of the Accounts, which was compiled in about 916 by an Arab geographer named Abu Zayd al-Hasan al-Sirafi. Abu Zayd, as his name indicates, came from the Gulf port of Siraf, at the western end of the sea route to China, but he never travelled to the east, and his portion of the book is less clearly sourced than the part usually attributed to Sulaymān al-Tājir. For this reason, and while there’s certainly no reason to write it off completely, the second part of the Accounts is usually considered less reliable than the first half of the book. I’d suggest we need to be very cautious of the figures that it offers, including that for the number of dead at Guangzhou.
With all this said, however, there’s no obvious reason to doubt that the foreign trade that passed through Guangzhou was pretty significant, nor that the sack of the city did not result in the deaths of a very high proportion of the foreign merchants who had based themselves there, and every reason to think that the commerce they were engaged in was important for both the caliphate and for China. Thanks in part to some recent archaeological advances, especially the discovery of several important shipwrecks, we know quite a bit more about this trade than we did even a couple of decades ago, so it is now possible to look in some detail not only at the ways in which merchants lived and worked in Guangzhou, and at what the city meant to the Tang state, but also at the fundamentals of the transoceanic trade itself.
Arab-Chinese trade in the ninth century
Trade between China and the lands to the west appears to date back to at least the era of the Han dynasty; the Arab name for Middle Kingdom, Al-Sin, is derived from the Qin dynasty under which the country was first unified in the third century BCE. But it flourished especially strongly in the ninth and tenth centuries CE, a period in which the Tang and Song devoted significant resources to promoting foreign trade, unlike many of the dynasties that would succeed them. There is considerable evidence not only that there was significant commercial contact between China and merchants from the Abbasid caliphate during this period, but also that the trade was considered valuable by the Chinese, quite a contrast to the ways in which the later Ming and Qing dynasties came to view such contacts. For example, while we know that at least 40 groups of Arab envoys travelled to China between 651 and 798, we also read that several Chinese delegations were dispatched to the Abbasids in the tenth century. These envoys were sent, ostensibly, to solicit tribute, but it seems clear, reading between the lines of the various imperial edicts, that their true purpose was to encourage trade.
Two main trade routes existed during the Tang dynasty – one overland, via central Asia, and the other maritime. The Tang and the Abbasids were both expanding for much of this period, and, as is well known, their respective spheres of influence eventually butted up against each other and resulted in Abbasid victory at the Battle of Talas, to the south-east of the Aral Sea, in 751. The outcome of this battle helped to determine that Muslim powers would dominate in central Asia for centuries to come, but there is little evidence it interfered much with trade. The overland route continued to be used until 755, when the devastating An Lushan rebellion, combined with the rise of the Tibetan empire, introduced barriers that more or less halted land-based commerce between China and the Middle East. From then on, trade went by sea, via what was the longest sea route in regular use before Europeans began to trade with India round Africa in the 1400s. We know that a maritime route that stretched from the Persian Gulf to the ports of southern China existed at least as early as the 760s, since Du Huan, one of the prisoners taken by the Arabs at the Battle of Talas, was released and travelled to Guangzhou by sea in 762.
The account that he wrote of his time as a prisoner of war – the Jiangxinghji, or Travel Record – which survives today only in a small number of fragments, is the earliest first-hand account of the Islamic world by a Chinese writer, and Meng Wei points out that the material that survives from it “demonstrates remarkably accurate and rich knowledge.” Nonetheless, the sea route was not much travelled until the latter part of the eighth century; a biographical note on Li Mian, who was viceroy of Lingnan in 769, notes that only five or six Arab ships a year called at Guangzhou at that time. Thanks in large part to Li Mian’s honesty and fair-dealing, however – the same account contends – the total number of Abbasid vessels visiting China during his period in office eventually totalled 4,000.
Much of the best evidence that we have for maritime trade in this period comes not from written records but from the archaeology of several shipwrecks that have been excavated since c.1990. From our perspective, the most important of these is the early ninth century Belitung Wreck, discovered in 1998 off the coast of Sumatra. The wreck is of an ocean-going Arab dhow, made from sewn planks, which had been carrying a cargo that included as many as 60,000 pieces of Chinese ceramics, one of which was inscribed with a date in 826. This dates the wreck to c.830, and it’s evidence of a direct trade between Chinese ports and the Abbasid caliphate – though, thus far, it remains a mystery as to why the ship sank something like 380 miles south of the normal sea-route that connected Siraf to Guangzhou.
Meanwhile the discovery of a second ship, the Intan Wreck, a few years later, offers an insight into the changes that happened as a result of the sack of Guangzhou. The location and the cargo of this c.920 wreck suggests that it was an Indonesian ship engaged in trade with the Srivijaya Empire in Sumatra, an entrepôt whose rise coincided with the decline of the Chinese port. The wreck tells us a good deal about the variety of goods, including Chinese exports, available in Srivijaya ports at this time, and helps to confirm textual sources that tell us many Muslim merchants preferred not to make the long and dangerous voyage all the way north to China in the tenth century, instead picking up the ceramics they coveted after they had been shipped south as far as Indonesia. But this change in trade routes does not seem to have limited the opportunities to pick up a wide variety of valuable goods. In fact, the Intan wreck disgorged a smaller overall number, but a much wider variety, of artefacts than the Belitung vessel, including tiger bones and elephant teeth. The rest of the cargo comprised
ceramics, silver ingots, mirrors, and ironware from China; tin ingots and currency from the Malay peninsula, pasteware and bottles from Thailand, and glass and amphorae from the Middle East
and confirms that a thriving maritime trade linking ports in Africa and Persia to the Malay Peninsula, Indonesia and China was still in existence at this date, about a half-century into the decline of Guangzhou – albeit one that probably no longer featured long voyages made direct from the Abbasid caliphate to China.
The port and fanfang of Guangzhou
Guangzhou had existed for well over 500 years by the time the city reached its early zenith, but it’s important to recognise that – while you can look at maps showing the borders of Tang China and see the whole of the coast shaded south all the way to Vietnam – the inland areas that surrounded it had by no means been fully integrated into the empire by this date. It’s safer to see the port as a remote, exotic outpost, which the Tang wrote of as located somewhere in the “land beyond the mountains” (the ranges north of Guangdong). Early biographical directories compiled by Chinese scholars list few people who came from the far south, and almost all of those who did appear were either state functionaries or local “chieftains” who had proved themselves loyal to the empire. “Outside Guangzhou,” notes David Faure, “was a no-man’s land dominated by local powers that few in Guangzhou understood or wanted to understand.”
A Han-era work, the Account of Strange Things, had been written to describe the wonders of the far south, which included
rice that ripened twice a year, birds that moved their nests lower down the tree as their eggs hatched, peacocks, the delicious lichee fruit, betel nuts, coconuts, and human beings whose ears stuck to their faces before dividing into several pieces drooping down to their shoulders.
This book was later supplemented by the Tang’s Records of Strange Things Beyond the Mountains, which mentioned deadly mists that swept down from the mountains and rebels, driven down from the north, who had fled into the sea and lived in houses made of shells. Guangzhou even had its own book of marvels in the Tang period, Dai Fu’s Strange Things of Guangzhou, which discussed a half-human race, the shanxiao, who supposedly lived in the hinterlands, squatting in trees and demanding payments from passers-by.
Communication with the main centres of Tang power was via the inland “Dayuling pathway,” opened up on the orders of the Emperor Xuanzong in 716, or by sea. The city did house a small army garrison, whose main duty was to keep the peace among the local aboriginal peoples, and it was also a centre of Buddhism that supported several important monasteries. Nonetheless, according to Faure, Guangzhou existed almost entirely to funnel luxury goods (whether sourced locally or imported) to the emperor and the great clans who clustered around the imperial court:
The [Tang] prefect’s reputation seems to have rested on his ability to quell the barbarian tribes that inhabited the vast unknown beyond the city. Taxes from Guangzhou probably were insufficient to pay the troops, but that does not seem to have mattered, as long as the rarities of the south were dispatched north to the imperial court. Guangzhou was an outpost where Arabs traded with aborigines under the military protection of the Chinese imperial state.
Simply reaching Guangzhou, however distant an outpost it was for the Tang, was a substantial achievement for the seafarers of the ninth century. The journey from the great Abbasid port of Siraf, in the Persian Gulf, to Guangzhou, via Kulam Mali in India and the lost city known as Kalah Bar on the Malay peninsula, involved about 90 days at sea, and took six months in total to complete, including time in port. The seagoing dhows that took part in it benefitted from the trade winds of the Indian Ocean – which, thanks to the annual monsoon, blew from east to west consistently in one season, before reversing themselves to blow from west to east.
Remote though Guangzhou was, however, it was a major entrepôt during this period, and according to the Accounts it had “twenty lesser cities under it.” The Buddhist monk Jianzhen, who visited during the eighth century, described it as crowded with large ships from Borneo, Java and Persia, carrying spices and pearls and jade “piled up mountain high.” From other sources we know that Sinhalese sailors from Sri Lanka, traders from the Malay peninsula, and ships from Japan were regular visitors to the port alongside Arabs and Persians. There is also a tradition, reported by the Jesuit missionary-scholar Matteo Ricci in 1605, that Jewish merchants were active in the city from 800. Guangzhou may well have been the most cosmopolitan city on earth during the ninth century.
The Accounts of China and India contains some fairly detailed description of the general condition of Chinese cities. They were plagued by frequent fires, we’re told, “because their houses there are built of wood and split bamboo.” But the inhabitants were prepared for this possibility: “The doorways of their houses have no thresholds, because their goods and treasures and all their possessions are kept in chests mounted on wheels, so they can be moved about. If fire breaks out, these chests and their contents can be pushed to safety, with no threshold to impede their swift exit.”
The merchants of Guanzhong, meanwhile, lived in their own quarter, or fanfang (fan = non-Han or foreigners, while fang = a residential area). The fanfang was certainly in existence by 835 and it appears to have grown significantly thereafter. By the 870s it housed a considerable community, comprising not only merchants and envoys, but also sailors, soldiers and refugees.
As to how the inhabitants of the fanfang lived: Tang law was clear that foreign merchants should live in their own communities, elect their own leaders, live according to their own customs, and – in cases of trouble – “be tried and sentenced using their own laws.” This meant that the fanfang grew up to the west of the city walls and formed a socially as well as a geographically distinct community. It had its own leader, known as the fanzhang, who combined a religious role as head of the local Muslim umma, or community, and what Wei describes as “a legitimate community authority, endorsed by the state.” The holder of this role was apparently elected by the fanfang as a whole, though their nominee required the emperor’s approval before he could take office and was also required to wear Chinese dress.
All this suggests, of course, that the fanfang was religiously as well as geographically and ethnically distinct, and it certainly had its own mosques and its own imams from an early period. One of the earliest Arab embassies to China is said to have been led by Mohammed’s uncle, Sa’d ibn Abbi Waqqas (c.584-664), who reached the Tang court during the time of Gaozu, the founder of the Tang dynasty, who reigned from 618-626. Gaozu welcomed the delegation and given orders permitting a mosque – the Huaisheng Mosque – to be erected in Guangzhou to serve the merchant community in the port.
The port area of Guangzhou was pretty large by the end of the ninth century. Faure notes that that fanfangwas probably several times the size of the Chinese portion of Guangzhou: “the Tang walled city was tiny,” he says, and though it probably did house the residence of the local prefect, the chief justice and the city’s eunuch chief of finance, the tuqam, the other major Chinese official, the maritime trade commissioner (shibo si, a post established in 763), probably lived outside the Tang walls in the port area itself.
Leslie makes the point that, while most foreigners who settled in China in this period quite quickly adopted Chinese customs, married into local families, and adopted Chinese names and customs, the same does not seem to be true of the Guangzhou Arabs, who apparently kept their own names and customs. This suggests a community large enough to be self-sustaining, and also one in which links to home communities remained strong, though this certainly should not be taken to mean that Arab traders did not live in the city for long enough to think of it as home, or that intermarriage never happened. Certainly Lu Jun, who was prefect of the city shortly before its sack, was concerned by the frequency with which Arab merchants formed relationships with Chinese women. According to one of the two Tang histories, the Jiu Tang shi, one of the local Maritime Trade Commissioners living in the city wrote that
First the locals and foreigners live together, then they marry each other. Sometimes the officials try to stop them. Somehow they seem to attract each other. When Jun came to the job, he established rules that Chinese and foreigners should live separately, and they shouldn’t marry. Foreigners shouldn’t buy land and build houses.
Examination of the surviving contents of contemporary wrecks suggests that porcelain was almost certainly the most important commodity traded between China and the Abbasid caliphate, but Accounts of China and India mentions other sorts of cargo, which would not have withstood centuries of immersion nearly so well: silk is one, and musk is also mentioned. The Chinese, meanwhile, were importing camphor together with
ivory, frankincense and copper ingots, as well as dhabl from the sea [tortoiseshell] and the bushan[rhinoceros horn].
They were also, arguably, expanding their own efforts to trade along the same sea routes, rather than leave the profits of the trade to the Arabs. Chinese trade with the west was underway by 785. There are records that suggest that Chinese merchants may have traded in Cairo during this period (an idea that raises eyebrows among more conservative historians), and in 863 the Tang poet and administrator Duan Chengshi published an account of voyages made by Chinese junks in search of ivory and ambergris to places as distant as Somalia – all undertaken nearly 600 years before the much better-known journeys of the eunuch admiral Zheng He.
For the most part, the Accounts assure us, trade in Guangzhou was very well-regulated. The shibo si required foreign captains to register at his office when they arrived in port, and he and his men inspected their manifests, collected export duty and freight charges, and policed attempts to export forbidden rarities. The same authorities were also responsible for maintaining the shoushi, or imperial monopoly on specified categories of luxury goods, and administering the jinfeng, or exchange of gifts, all of which had to be completed before trading could begin. Finally, they levied the very high 30 percent duty in imports, taken in kind from the cargoes that were landed at the port, and a sales tax of an additional 5 percent, the latter designed in part to pay the maintenance costs of the army garrison.
In exchange for all this, the Tang authorities ensured that the goods were securely warehoused and their owners were indemnified against breakage or loss. No trading was permitted until all the vessels in a fleet had arrived. It’s possible to interpret this last piece of information in a couple of ways – as an example of Chinese fair dealing, which ensured all the merchants in a party had an equal opportunity to buy and sell, or, as George Hourani suggests, as a piece of legislation designed to benefit the Tang, since it made it more likely that the local markets would be flooded with goods before trading began, reducing prices. Whatever the truth, the only person with special rights was the emperor or his representative, but “he gives the very highest price and pays immediately, so he does no harm to the merchants.”
Relations between the Chinese and members of the foreign merchant community were not always friendly, however. The “pirate raid” of 758 that you mention is variously explained. Suleyman’s account paints it as the work of Arab and Persian pirates based on the island of Hainan. On the other hand, the Jiu Tang shu suggests that it involved not an attack from the sea, but a rising by members of Guangzhou’s Muslim merchant community, who for unstated reasons (Wei suggests anger at the exorbitant taxes levied on imports) apparently escalated a dispute with local imperial officials into a sack of the city so severe that it reduced the port to backwater status for at least four decades. It seems likely that the latter account is to be preferred, since Howard points out that, in the aftermath of the violence, the Tang ordered that the port be closed to foreign trade, and that it remained closed until early in the ninth century – which would seem a harsh judgement if the damage had been caused by pirates. If Arab merchants were in fact responsible for this devastation, moreover, that would at answer your question as to why they were willing to return to Guangzhou and resume trading there when the port reopened after 800.
Much of the trade that had flowed into the Pearl River was shifted south to Tống Bình (Hanoi) in the years that followed the sack and massacre of 879, and Abu Zayd, the compiler of the Accounts of China and India,writes that “the trading voyages to China were abandoned, and the country itself was ruined, leaving all traces of its greatness gone.” Most of the remaining trade with the west moved to Quanzhou, a port the Muslims knew as “Zaytun” – which is in Fujien, further to the north in the Taiwan Strait. This was the major Chinese port mentioned by both Marco Polo and Ibn Battuta.
To understand how that happened, we need to look next at the internal politics of Tang China, and especially at the events that led up to the sack of Guangzhou, which revolve around one of the largest and most devastating wars recorded in the long history of rebellion in China.
The Huang Chou rebellion
The uprising that resulted in the sack of Guangzhou was a peasant rebellion led by a southerner named Huang Chou and was caused, according to Adam Fong, by a combination of increasingly bad and corrupt government, and a series of devastatingly bad harvests that occurred during the early 870s. The ensuing revolt lasted for ten years (874-884), and, at least according to the main dynastic histories of the Tang, involved several hundred thousand rebels – making it one of the largest, longest-lasting and most significant such uprisings in the whole of the history of China.
We possess only a few scraps of information about Huang Chou’s background, but the details that we have are certainly suggestive. Both Tang dynastic histories state that came from a merchant family that had been engaged in the salt trade for several generations, though one of them adds that he was also a disgruntled failed candidate in the imperial civil service exams – which opens the intriguing possibility that he may have had a rather similar background to the much later rebel Hong Xiuquan, the well-known leader of the mid-nineteenth century Taiping Rebellion. More importantly, however, Huang Chou’s profession of salt merchant brought him into conflict with a government that claimed a monopoly on salt production, and already raised more than 50% of its revenues by controlling production and adding so much tax to the price of the commodity that it became almost unaffordable to the average Chinese. This probably explains why one Tang history states that Huang Chou embarked on a career as a smuggler – which in turn, it would appear, brought him into conflict with Tang officials who saw him as an outlaw, and was the proximate cause of his decision to rebel.
The Tang’s control over the more distant provinces in their empire had so weakened by this point that there were already plenty of bandits and disgruntled peasants willing to fight for a charismatic and successful leaders. Huang Chao began his rebellion as only one of a number of commanders in a loose rebel alliance, but, after the death of his superior Wang Xianzhi, who was killed in battle with Tang forces in 878, he was able to unite the various factions into an effective army and have himself accepted as its “Heaven-Storming Generalissimo”.
Huang Chou and his men arrived outside the walls of Guangzhou in 878, having apparently been forced south by the actions of imperial armies to the north. Neither of the Tang histories tell us much about the events that followed beyond the mere fact that the city fell to him – “merchants were not that important to society,” Fong argues, so “their mass slaughter in a remote city was not deemed important enough to be added to the dynastic histories.” Other than that, we are forced to turn to Arabic sources for more details. The Accounts of China and India states that
at first the citizens … held out against him, but he subjected them to a long siege … until, at last, he too the city and put its people to the sword. Experts on Chinese affairs reported that the number of Muslims, Jews, Christians and Magians [Zoroastrians] massacred by him, quite apart from the native Chinese, was 120,000.
The same account adds that “the only reason the number of victims from these four communities happens to be known is that the Chinese had kept records of their numbers.” This is an interesting bit of commentary; read carefully, it suggests that the Chinese bureaucracy listed 120,000 foreign merchants in the city before the siege (“had kept records”) rather than counted 120,000 corpses after it. Since we know that at least some of the merchants in the fanfang survived the massacre, we can be pretty certain that the total number of dead was below the 120,000 figure, that at least some of them were Chinese – and that since Abu Zayd gives us no more detail as to how the figure was obtained or made its way to him in Persia, we’re probably right to be quite sceptical of it; the Chinese historian Chao Zongchen suggests the real total may have been as little as 10,000. Nonetheless, there’s little reason to doubt that Huang Chao’s men did a huge amount of damage, and it’s more than likely that a high proportion of the local merchant community was killed.
What’s a lot less certain is what exactly the rebels were hoping to achieve by attacking Guangzhou. There are two broad schools of thought in this respect. It’s very possible to argue that Huang Chao was eager to wreak general havoc, both to punish the Tang (who, according to one of the dynastic histories, had rebuffed his attempts to negotiate a favourable surrender, refused the request-cum-threat that he’d sent them suggesting that he be named prefect of the city, and offered him an insultingly lesser post instead), as well as to reward his men with the rich plunder available within Guangzhou’s fanfang. On the other hand, several authors, such as Wright and Risso, have suggested that the massacre may have been specifically directed against the immigrant community, and was the product of Chinese resentment at the economic clout enjoyed by Arab and Persian merchants.
My own view is that there’s little real evidence that Huang Chao intended to destroy the fanfang alone, rather than do more general damage to Guangzhou as a whole. We know that at least some of the foreign merchants there survived the sack of the merchant quarter, and that these men, rather than being rounded up and executed, were simply expelled from China. Nor was Huang Chou’s anger solely directed at foreign merchants; he also devastated the city’s hinterlands and destroyed the valuable cocoons that underpinned the local silk trade. Whatever his motives, the damage he and his men did was irreparable, at least in the short term. The Jiu Tang shu cites an official named Yu Qiong as complaining that
the southern sea contains the profits of the maritime trade, offering pearls and jewels annually. Now the wicked thieves took it. The national treasury will be vanishing gradually.
We can wrap up the remainder of the story fairly briefly. At the height of Huang Chou’s revolt, in 881, he captured and sacked the imperial capital, Chang’an, then had himself proclaimed as “Emperor of Great Qi”. The rebels then held the largely ruined city for two years. Huang Chao’s great mistake, almost certainly, was to sacrifice the mobility that had made him such a threat to the Tang; by staying in Chang’an, he allowed the ruling emperor, who had fled to Sichuan, to mobilise several armies against him and also call in Kirghiz troops from the Turkic west.
Huang Chou and his supporters were expelled from what was left of the capital – temporarily in 882, and permanently in 883. Depending on which dynastic history you favour, Huang Chou either committed suicide, or was killed by a nephew, soon afterwards, and what was left of his rebellion collapsed. At its height, nonetheless, he had controlled a significant part of China, and the damage done by the uprising is usually cited as one of the key factors behind the decline of the late Tang state, which collapsed only a few years later in 907. Chang’an never recovered, and in fact the great city – which had once been four times the size of Rome – fell into such decay that it disappeared altogether and reverted to farmland. The poet Wei Chuang records the desolation left behind by the rebels, and it is worth giving a few lines here, as it also offers us some insight into what happened at Guangzhou:
Chang’an lies in mournful stillness: what does it now contain?
Ruined markets and desolate streets, in which ears of wheat are sprouting.
Fuel-gatherers have hacked down every flowering plant in the Apricot Gardens.
Builders of barricades have destroyed the willows along the Imperial Canal.
All the gaily-coloured chariots with their ornamental wheels are scattered and gone,
Of the stately mansions with their vermilion gates less than half remain.
The Hanyuan Hall is the haunt of foxes and hares…
Only a dreary waste meets the eye; the old familiar objects are no more.
Half a century of further conflict then ensued in China – a period dominated by warlords ruling over what are known as the Five Dynasties – and the Song state that emerged after 960, and which lasted until the Mongol invasions of the 1270s, neither controlled as much territory as the Tang, nor had as much contact with the west.
The area surrounding Guangzhou split off from the Chinese state after the collapse of the Tang and called itself the kingdom of Nan Han (= “Southern Han”). It retained its independence for three generations, funded in part by a revival of foreign trade and the riches of the pearl fisheries around Guangzhou. The ruling dynasty became noted for its extraordinary cruelty and its extraordinary wealth, and its rule was supported by the remnants of the indigenous gentry who had emerged during the Tang dynasty and survived the massacres of 879. The Southern Han state was not reintegrated into the imperial polity to the north until the reign of the Song emperor Taizu (960-976).
From what little we know about the history of Guangzhou in the aftermath of Huang Chou’s rebellion, it seems that the city failed to recover from its sacking for several centuries to come. Zeng Yanwen notes a widespread culture of corruption, which had already begun to drive foreign traders to move to the rival port of Quanzhou even before 879. (“It was well known that posting in Guangzhou led immediately to great wealth,” Faure confirms.) This, combined with the devastation wreaked by the rebel troops, meant that Guangzhou had been relegated to the status of a second-class port by the time trade revived under the Song dynasty. It took several more centuries for the town that had once been one of the great symbols of the system of transoceanic trade to revive.
Janet Abu-Lughod, Before European Hegemony: The World System A.D. 1250-1350 (1991); David Faure, Emperor and Ancestor: State and Lineage in South China (2007); Adam Fong, “Ending an era: the Huang Chao Rebellion of the Late Tang, 874-884,” East-West Working Papers 26 (2006); Heng Chye Kiang, Cities of Aristocrats and Bureaucrats: The Development of Medieval Chinese Cityscapes (1999); George F. Hourani, Arab Seafaring in the Indian Ocean in Ancient and Early Medieval Times (1951); Michael C. Howard, Transnationalism in Ancient and Medieval Societies: The Role of Cross-Border Trade and Travel (2012); Donald Leslie, The Integration of Religious Minorities in China: the Case of Chinese Muslims (1998); Donald Leslie, The Survival of the Chinese Jews: The Jewish Community of Kaifeng (1972); Xiaobing Li, China At War: An Encyclopedia (2012); Patricia A. Risso, Merchants and Faith: Muslim Commerce and Culture in the Indian Ocean (1995); Harold M. Tanner, China: A History (2009); Meng Wei, “The Advent of Islam in China: Guangzhou Fanfang during the Tang-Song Era,” (unpublished Washington University in St Louis MA thesis, 2010); David Wright, The History of China (2001); Dennis C. Twitchett (ed.), The Cambridge History of China vol.3 part 1: Sui and T’ang China, 589–906 AD (1979); Victor Cunrui Xiong, Historical Dictionary of Medieval China (2008); Zheng Yangwen, China on the Sea: How the Maritime World Shaped Modern China (2011); Abu Zayd al-Sirafi, Accounts of China and India (trans. Tim Mackintosh-Smith) (2017).
Q: I was reading about the history of the stapler and found that the first stapler was made for King Louis XV. “The ornate staples it used were forged from gold, encrusted with precious stones, and bore his Royal Court’s insignia.” Is this true? Does the stapler still exist?
A: Fascinating question, not least because a moment’s thought suggests that the type of staples you’re describing would be pretty useless for any stationery-related purposes – gold is a soft metal and encrustations of “precious stones” would be an obstacle to any attempt to neatly collate paper.
A few checks reveal that this story has been pinging around online since the turn of the millennium on sites such as Mental Floss, almost always accompanied by the rather worrying prefix “legend has it”. But in fact the story does antedate the internet; the earliest version I have found – which is, importantly, stripped of all mention of royal insignia, gold staples and precious stones – actually appeared in Investor’s Reader, published by Merrill Lynch, in 1962. The reference appears in the “Business at work” feature of the 3 January 1962 issue of Investor’s Reader. This contains a three page section on the Swingline company (formerly the Parrot Speed Fastener Co.), of Queens, NY, which noted that founder and chairman “Jack [Linsky] showed NYSE prexy [president] Keith Funston the original stapler developed by Louis XV and its streamlined replacement…”, but unfortunately absolutely no more detailed description of the device. It does however run a photo of Linsky holding the object, albeit at too small a size for us to be very certain exactly what the “stapler” actually was or was supposed to do.
All this is interesting not least because Jack Linsky was the man who invented the modern stapler, creating the adhesive that is used to fasten lines of staples together so they can be loaded into a magazine. He emerges from histories of the staple as a man who took a serious interest in the history of the device, and I think it’s almost certain that the story of Louis XV’s “stapler” was first disseminated by him.
The reality, though, was that nothing created in this early period really matches the modern description of a stapler, and the detail that Louis’s staples were jewel-encrusted and made of gold does not appear until the very end of the 20th century. Moreover, Linsky plainly had good reason to re-label early paper-fastening devices – and especially devices produced under the patronage of a royal court – as “staplers” when they were really nothing of the sort, since this dignified his own business with a long and royal history.
From the scant information available, it appears that there are two broad possibilities. One, mentioned by an Italian industrial design website, is that the machine was actually “a tool that uses decorated pins, with which the king imprints the royal seal”. The other is that the “staples” used at Louis XV’s court were a type of paper fastener, used to secure papers in place of the sealing wax or tape or string then used. This would mean that the device described by Linsky was in effect some sort of binding machine, perhaps more accurately imagined as a distant precursor of the modern saddle-stitch binder, which would have been used to pierce the papers and insert a metal fastening and bend or twist it so it secured the papers.
The practicality of such a device would have been dubious, as it was not until the development of steel wire in the second half of the 19th century that a wire with the correct combination of softness and durability to be useful in fastening and binding papers was developed. This suggests that the Italian description is probably more accurate – though, if so, we’d be looking at something not unlike a Braille embosser that functioned in the same way as a stapler (insert paper, press down, use metal spikes to make holes in paper) rather than a device having the same purpose as a stapler. That is, it would not be any sort of paper fastener. My – inexpert – feeling is that the shape of the object displayed by Linsky in *Investor’s Reader* supports the idea it was designed to emboss a royal seal onto paper using a pattern of pins.
Unfortunately, despite the investment of some time and effort, I have not yet been able to trace any mention of the original machine referenced by Linsky in more general sources relating to the history of paper fastening technology or the court of Louis XV – very probably because such sources refer to the device by its unknown proper name. But, in the meantime, we can note that modern staples of the sort that are dispensed by machine date only to the 1840s, with the invention of devices such as Samuel Slocum’s “Machine for sticking pins into papers” (1841) and Lipman’s Improved Eyelet Machine (c.1868), a form of modified rivet for use by clothing manufacturers. The word “stapler” dates only to the 1880s; it first appeared in The American Bookseller of 2 June 1884 to describe a new type of “novelty paper fastener”.
And the humble staple was a successful enough innovation to make Linsky rich. A New York Times profile of him notes that
“He and his wife, Belle, were philanthropists and art collectors who once owned one of the largest collections of Fabergé eggs in America. Jack died in 1980, and in 1982 Belle donated a collection of the couple’s European art, then worth $60 million, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
The Linsky Art Collection – which, perhaps not coincidentally, is quite heavily focused on pieces created during the reign of Louis XV – is now an important feature of the Met. It seems to me quite possible that the device used in France in Louis XV’s time, and which was once part of the Linsky collection, still survives somewhere as well – although, having reviewed the Met’s catalogue, it appears it was not one of the items transferred to that museum by Belle Linsky.
More when I have it. But for now I think it’s reasonably safe to conclude that the basic story originated with Linsky and that the accoutrements – not least the jewel-encrusted staples – are just inventions added by imaginative writers to make the story more interesting around 2000. So, the device you are interested in was almost certainly not a stapler and did not dispense gold staples, jewel-encrusted staples, staples imprinted with the royal insignia, or any combination of the three.
Note: my thanks to the staff at the Library of Congress for tracking down and sending me a copy of Investor’s Reader for 3 January 1962.
Q: Why can’t I find very much information about the 14th Century black death in Asia?
A: You’re asking about an extremely important but remarkably neglected problem – and it’s one that also happens to have remarkably large implications.
It’s important because it asks about what happened to a large proportion of the world’s population in the fourteenth century. It’s neglected because there are major problems with sources, and because the vast majority of research into the Black Death has, historically, been done by Europeans who are chiefly interested in the pandemic’s impact on Europe. And it has substantial implications not only because it involves our understanding of the course of the lives and deaths of hundreds of millions of people, but also because it impacts on our understanding of the basic mechanics of how plague spread.
The short answer to your question, though, is that while historians did long assume that the Black Death began its journey in China, the modern consensus is that it did not. The most recent studies, dating to the last dozen or so years, place its original focus somewhere in the region of the west banks of the Caspian Sea, and the majority of those authorities, led by Ole Benedictow, the author of The Black Death 1346-1353: the Complete History, now prefer the idea that the pandemic had its origins in about 1345 in the lands controlled by the Golden Horde. While there is no doubt, moreover, that the disease reached and devastated the lands of the Middle East, it’s now believed to be very much open to question whether it ever reached what were then the world’s two most heavily-populated regions, India and China.
Benedictow is backed up by a recent revisionist paper, published in the Bulletin of the History of Medicine, in which George Sussman summarises the available evidence for the pandemic’s impact on China and India, combining a re-examination of contemporary primary sources with a close look at what is known of the pathology of the plague bacteria itself, and concludes that evidence for an east Asian origin for the Black Death is seriously lacking. Sussman’s ideas, in turn, have received support from bacteriologists studying the disease, most notably in a paper by Spyrou et al which appeared in Cell Host and Microbe in 2016 and argued that study of the DNA evidence supports a reversal of our usual ideas about the transmission of the plague bacterium – that is, that it actually travelled from Europe to Asia, and not the other way around. The team behind this paper says that their research “provides support for (1) a single entry of Y. pestis in Europe during the Black Death, [and] (2) a wave of plague that traveled toward Asia to later become the source population for contemporary worldwide epidemics.”
So there are growing doubts as to whether the Black Death originated in China, as mainstream narratives have had it for several generations, and hence still active debates as to how exactly the pandemic was experienced in Asia as a whole. In order to assess the evidence for and against this new hypothesis, we need to look at a couple of key themes, which can be conveniently grouped under three main headings: why earlier authorities favoured an origin in east Asia; what evidence there is for any sort of plague pandemic in either China or India during the fourteenth century; and what our current understanding of the origins of such pandemics can do to inform this discussion – which in turn requires us to think about the the concept of plague foci, or hot spots.
Let’s take these issues one by one.
The mainstream view – a plague with origins in Asia
Historians of the Black Death have long argued that the pandemic had its origins in east Asia, probably in a region in the northernmost reaches of imperial China or in the adjacent steppe-lands.
Typically, the evidence presented in support of this idea includes some or all of the following:
• China is known to be a major plague focus, by which is meant an area in which the disease is endemic among rodents, and from which it occasionally erupts to cause pandemics among humans elsewhere in the world. Specifically, the argument goes as follows: there have been three global bubonic plague pandemics – the first was almost certainly the Plague of Justinian, in the sixth century; the second was the Black Death; and the third began in Hong Kong in 1894 and spread from there. Since China was certainly the area from which the third pandemic spread, and since plague foci are believed to endure for very long periods of time, it’s credible it also provided the focus for the Black Death.
Quite of lot of plague literature seems content to leap to such assumptions without subjecting the evidence to much of a critical enquiry. For example, William McNeill’s influential Plagues and People (1976) merely states that it’s “impossible to believe that the plague did not affect China, India, and the Middle East,” without actually examining the evidence – or lack of evidence – that it did so.
• It’s possible to back this idea up by appealing to contemporary sources. European chroniclers of the fourteenth century did believe that the pestilence that had exploded in their territories came originally from the distant, unknowable east. The writer most usually cited here is Gabriele de’ Mussis, an Italian lawyer whose Historia de Morbois one of the most detailed and well-respected histories of the Black Death. His chronicle includes a long list of the places where there was “weeping and lamenting” as a result of the passage of the plague, and this list includes China, India and Persia. De’ Mussis also says that
In the East, in Cathay, which is the greatest country in the world, horrible and terrifying signs appeared. Serpents and toads fell in a thick rain, entered dwellings and devoured numberless people, injecting them with poison and gnawing them with their teeth. In the South, in the Indies, earthquakes cast down whole towns and cities were consumed by fire from heaven. The hot fumes of the fire burnt up infinite numbers of people, and in some places it rained blood, and stones fell from the sky.
Of course we have no real idea where De’ Mussis got this idea from, and whether it has any basis in anything more solid than contemporary speculation, which, after all, took place in an area thousands of miles away from the area where the Black Death supposedly originated. One of the points that Benedictow draws attention to in his book is the conversion of the Golden Horde, or Kipchak Khanate, to Islam in 1313, and the impact that this may have had on east-west trade. Although Peter Jackson argues to the contrary – his The Mongols and the West, 1221-1410 posits that there was a golden age of trans-Asian trade that lasted from 1320 until 1345, precisely the period in which plague would most likely have been travelling west if the Asian origin theory is correct – Sussman tends to concur with Benedictow that it is much more likely it was badly disrupted, and that this disruption would have fatally impeded the transit of the Black Death across the Asian steppe. Sussman points out that the Golden Horde was not the only Mongol state to embrace Islam; both the Ilkhanate (c.1295) and the Chagatai khanate (after c.1330) also converted, creating a substantial barrier to trade that probably did result in the severe disruption of travel across Asia in the crucial years before 1345. Since the Horde was actually at war with the Genoese and Venetians by that latter year – these were the “Mongols” whose siege of Caffa is generally seen as the starting point for the journey of the Black Death west – we therefore at least need to question how readily a pandemic that originated in China could have made the leap to Europe.
Benedictow’s conclusion is that
It must be considered highly unlikely that plague could have been passed on by trade and travel from China to the Italians in the Crimea. No merchants in their senses would risk precious goods and expensive and dangerous transport over thousands of kilometres to the Christian Italian merchants through Muslim states that were intensely hostile to trade and contact with Christians… At the end of the caravan route, the ruler had actually gone to war to drive away the Christians, and the towns of destination were under siege.
Benedictow’s ideas seem to me to have some merit, though perhaps it’s not necessary to hypothesise that trade goods began their journey in China with a specific destination in the Christian territories to the far west in mind. It still seems possible that a pandemic might have spread in stages along a trade route where the passage of trade goods was more localised.
• The chronicler Ibn al-Wardi, of Aleppo, spoke to merchants who had seen the Black Death in the Crimea (and who brought it back with them to Syria), and reported their belief that it had been wreaking havoc in Asia since the early 1330s, had its origins in “the land of darkness” – a phrase usually interpreted to mean the northern steppe-lands. Al-Wardi adds:
China was not preserved from it, nor could the strongest fortress hinder it. The plague afflicted the Indians in India. It weighed upon the Sind. It seized with its hand and ensnared even the lands of the Uzbeks. How many backs did it break in what is Transoxiana!
Here again we have evidence that contemporaries suspected the plague came from the far east, but – again – little to suggest this was more than a sort of orientalist fantasy. The east (as De’ Mussis’s chronicle also demonstrates) was seen as a mysterious place where all sorts of wonders frequently occurred, and, for the inhabitants of both Europe and the Middle East in this period, it was also the only more or less unexplored part of the known world, so it was a natural spot to locate the origins of something as apparently new, and as completely devastating, as the Black Death.
• The Chinese census of 1200 (which like all such censuses at this time counted “doors” – households – rather than “mouths” – individuals) revealed a population estimated at 120 million. Another, taken in 1393, found that the total had fallen to just 65 million.
I’ve seen it suggested that a significant proportion of the empire’s “missing” subjects, who apparently vanished between 1200 and 1393, were lost to the plague. Unfortunately, this claims takes no account of Kublai Khan’s census of 1290 – which is rated probably the most reliable of the Mongol enumerations. This census put the total at 13.9 million households, and hence at an estimated 59 million people, and would suggest that the great majority of the apparent population loss took place during the thirteenth century – and may be associated at least in part with the Mongol conquest – rather than the fourteenth century and the Black Death.
• Most of this information was noted by the earliest modern historians of the plague, most importantly the German medical historian J.F.C. Hecker, writing in the 1830s. His account became hugely influential (not least because it was first published at a time when another pestilence, cholera, was raging in Europe), and so Hecker’s description of “an universal pestilence, which extended from China to Iceland and Greenland” became the default from which later writers took their lead – even though it’s now generally agreed that the plague did not reach either Iceland or Greenland.
• One additional bit of evidence pointing to a pre-1347 Asian origin for the Black Death that you’ll often see cited comes from inscriptions found on grave markers in two Nestorian cemeteries to the north of lake Issyk-Kul – a stopover on the silk road in what is now Kyrgyzstan, only about a hundred miles from the westernmost borders of China – that were excavated by Russian archaeologists in the middle 1880s. Daniel Chwolson, the archaeologist leading the dig, noted that he had collected a total of 650 names from surviving headstones, dating from 1186 and 1349. Of these, 106 had died – in about 10 percent of cases it was specified of “pestilence” – in one two-year period, between 1338 and 1339. An example is a stone that reads:
In the year one thousand six hundred and fifty [= 1339 AD], the hare year. This is the grave of Kutluk. He died of pestilence with his wife Mangu-Kelka.
It did not take much joining of the dots for plague researchers to notice such a dramatic concentration of deaths less than a decade before the Black Death erupted into Europe, and to turn these inscriptions into evidence of the plague’s slow westward migration. More sceptical voices, however, point out that “pestilence” could mean a wide variety of diseases, and Sussman adds that Chwolson’s work remains, nearly a century and a half later, “the only evidence we have of a possible plague outbreak in the steppes before the reports from the Crimea in 1346, to which the European and Middle Eastern epidemics have been traced.” Without a better context, and ideally verification in the form of evidence from contemporary Nestorian graves – which has not yet been forthcoming – it would be unsafe to assume these deaths were caused by the Black Death.
Evidence and lack of evidence for the Black Death in China and India
Chinese historians kept records of major epidemics from at least the Tang dynasty, and these were typically incorporated into dynastic records alongside floods, droughts, astronomical phenomena and other events that could collectively be considered portents or evidence of the judgement of heaven on the emperor and the imperial administration. Historians who have examined these records are fairly dramatically divided into those who argue that they contain clear evidence that the Black Death did ravage China and those who believe that it did not.
There seems to be general agreement here that the Chinese archives contain no absolutely conclusive reference to any epidemic of bubonic plague the Middle Kingdom before 1640. There certainly are records, however, of significant epidemics that took place in China at about the right time to have been associated with the Black Death. These include:
• An apparently devastating epidemic in Hebei, in the north-east of China, in 1331-34. The contemporary description of this pestilence – which may well be an exaggeration – suggests that it killed 90 percent of the population of the province, and a summary compiled at the end of the nineteenth century by the Imperial Maritime Customs Service places the mortality at “13 million persons”.
• A “great pestilence” in the coastal provinces of Fujian and Shandong in 1344.
• An apparent pandemic that cycled through several northern provinces in 1351-52, and which supposedly killed two-thirds of the population of Shanxi and Hubei.
• Additional “great pestilences” in northern and central China between 1356 and 1362.
There are two possible ways of interpreting this information. One is to assume that they are a record of a pandemic of the Black Death. This is certainly not impossible, at least if the various “pestilences” were actually linked; waves of bubonic plague, which moved steadily from place to place but were also capable of returning and revisiting areas they had already devastated, are characteristic of the progress of the plague in the better-chronicled regions of western Europe. And the timing, at first glance, looks right, at least if we assume that the Hebei pandemic was the first eruption of the Black Death; it would have had 15 years to make the journey from the eastern borders of China to the lands of the Golden Horde, which is no faster than the pace that the disease advanced across Europe. Estimates of vast numbers of deaths, moreover – assuming they are at least roughly accurate – suggest a pandemic of exceptional virulence, and again provide a good match for the Black Death.
Yet it’s also possible to look at the same evidence more sceptically, and observe that every one of the epidemics mentioned in contemporary Chinese sources is recorded in a very similar way – as a “pestilence”, that is, but without any specific mention being made of the symptoms of the disease. This might indicate that the pathogens were familiar ones, creating symptoms that were not considered strange enough to be worth recording; we know China was vulnerable to outbreaks of smallpox, typhus, dysentery and and influenza throughout this period. In this view, the Chinese record stands distinct from that we have from Europe and the Middle East, where it is commonplace to find detailed descriptions of the previously unheard-of – but highly recognisable – symptoms of the Black Death, characterised as it was by the presence of agonising, blackened buboes in armpits and groins, the spitting of blood, and almost certain death after three or four days.
In the European context, descriptions of what is undoubtedly the plague can be traced all the way back to ancient Greece. So is it really credible that generations of Chinese scholars could fail to make mention of the unique and distinct symptoms of the Black Death if they really were describing an exceptionally virulent pandemic of a type never seen in the country before? There are records to suggest that China was hit by what could have been the Plague of Justinian, since the physician Sun Ssu-mo (also known as Sun Simiao), who died in 652, refers in his Valuable Prescriptions to a pandemic characterised by the presence of a “malignant bubo”. How could his successors 700 years later have failed to make similar observations?
Determining which of these two competing positions is most likely to be correct means determining whether or not it is reasonable to suppose that a pandemic as devastating and distinctive as the Black Death could have taken place in China without contemporaries making any comment – especially as the 1330s and 1340s were a period in which the writing of history flourished under the patronage of the Yuan emperor Toghon Temür, who sponsored completion of the long-paused official histories of the Liao, Jin and Song dynasties during this period.
On balance, I believe, the evidence probably favours the sceptics. At the very least, it seems to show that the “pestilences” that visited China did not behave in exactly the same manner as the Black Death, which, in its journey through Europe, devastated the continent far more completely and more systematically than seems to have been the case in China. Moreover, it may very well be dangerous to assume that the pandemic could advance across the thinly-populated Asian steppe at the same sort of pace as it could move across the densely-populated lands of Europe. “Easier to believe,” Sussman concludes, “in the plague focus closes to there [the disease] was first observed in the Crimea [and that it] never reached China.”
An even more startling absence of evidence for a plague pandemic can be found in an examination of records from India, the northern portions of which were then dominated by the Delhi Sultanate and which maintained significant ties with Transoxiana, the area to the north and west from which the Tughluq dynasty had originated, and well as diplomatic and trade links the stretched across the Indian Ocean and connected Gujurat to the Red Sea. Trade – not least in slaves – also took place, via caravans, between the Sultanate and the Mongols of the Ilkhanate and the Golden Horde.
It would certainly seem, then, that India ought to have been at substantial risk of importing plague from its trading partners to the north. Our main source for this period of its history, the chronicle of Diya-yi Barani (also known as Ziauddin Barani), which covers the period up to 1351, describes an epidemic of cholera that devastated the Sultanate in 1334/35, but says nothing about any pestilence that could be bubonic plague. Diya-yi Barani’s successor, Sham Siraj Afif, who chronicled the reign of Firuz Shah between 1357 and 1388 (a period during which secondary and tertiary waves of plague were still devastating Europe) likewise makes no mention of any major epidemic, and indeed notes that the period was one of prosperity, peace and rising populations in India. Since we likewise have no DNA evidence to point to the existence of plague in any contemporary Indian cemeteries, it is generally agreed that the disease cannot have penetrated the subcontinent until what was clearly an outbreak of the disease was reported in Agra in 1619.
The most convincing reason that I’ve seen put forward to account for the failure of the Black Death to visit India was put forward by Sussman, who observes that the most efficient “vector” for the plague, and the one generally suspected of being the primary means of transmission of the Black Death, is Xenopsylla cheopsis, the oriental rat flea, a native to Egypt. Unlike some other species of flea that become infected with the plague bacillus, which digest the bacillus they ingest when they bite infected rates, X. cheopsis is unable to process the pathogen. Instead, the bacilli form a large blockage in the upper reaches of the flea’s stomach, which is regurgitated into the bloodstream of the next mammal it bites. It is this peculiarity that many epidemiologists suggest helps to explain the incredible virulence of the Black Death; the earliest unlucky victims of the pandemic of 1346-51, at least, were receiving gigantic doses of the plague bacillus delivered by fleas with blocked alimentary canals.
According to Sussman, there is no evidence that X. cheopsis reached India before the nineteenth century, and if this is indeed the case, it may help to explain why the subcontinent was not devastated in the 1340s and 1350s. I should stress, however, all that this is very tentative and hypothetical. X. cheopsis was almost certainly not responsible for spreading the Black Death throughout Europe; most specialists in plague fleas believe that only the first stages of transmission were the work of Egyptian rat fleas, and that most of the damage that occurred during the Black Death was inflicted by the human flea.
Sussman writes in some detail about the concept of plague foci, or “plague reservoirs” – areas which play host to a population of infected animals over a period of many years, and even centuries. He traces the evolution of the idea, which really got established as a result of turn-of-the-last-century research into the origins of the third global pandemic of 1894 onwards. He points out that, as late as 1881, it was generally accepted that the Black Death was a European and Middle Eastern pandemic which did not penetrate further east than Persia – it was the discovery than endemic centres of the plague existed in northern India and south-west China, in which incidences of the disease could be traced back at least as far as the 1820s, that gave birth to the idea that the Black Death, too, probably had its origins in Asia. The idea was given added credence by the work of Wu Lien-teh, a Chinese epidemiologist working in the 1920s, who identified 12 such foci – two in Africa, and the other 10 in Asia.
The idea that the existence of plague reservoirs explains now only how, but also where, pandemics of bubonic plague originate has entered the mainstream since Wu Lien-teh wrote. McNeill used the hypothesis to suggest that the ultimate origins of the Black Death were in the reservoir that lurked in south-west China, on the border between the Chinese province of Yunnan and Burma. His suggestion was that it began its spread towards Europe practically a century before it erupted into Italy, at the time of the Mongol invasion of Burma in 1252-53. From there, he suggested, it returned the Mongolia via fleas transported in the clothes and saddlebags of the invading warriors, before moving west along long-distance trade routes.
This idea would make more sense if there was any contemporary evidence that the plague reservoir in Yunnan existed in the fourteenth century. In fact, however, the earliest known reference to the existence of the disease in this province dates to no earlier than 1792. For this reason, Benedictow and several other authorities prefer to trace the Black Death to plague reservoirs that existed much closer to the Crimea and to Europe, specifically to the areas around the Caspian Sea that I mentioned earlier.
Varieties of plague
One possible way of resolving all the uncertainties created by the ambiguous evidence offered up by history and epidemiology is to turn directly to biology to better understand the plague bacterium itself.
The foundational work in this regard is that of a French doctor, R. Devignat, who in 1951 identified three different biovars, or strains, of plague, based on a study of their ability or inability to ferment glycerine. He labelled these three pathogens Y. pestis antiqua, Y. pestis medievalis and Y. pestis orientalis, and suggested were responsible for the three global pandemics of plague mentioned above. According to Devignat, Y. pestis medievalis – the strain responsible for the Black Death – probably had an Asian origin, although he speculated that its plague reservoir was probably originally in Kurdistan or southern Russia, much closer to the Crimea than had been imagined hitherto and a direct contradiction of McNeill’s speculations regarding an infestation brought from Burma to the Crimea by Mongol horsemen.
For John Norris, who followed up on Devignat’s work in the mid-1970s, the biological difference that exists between the strains of plague in foci in China and Mongolia on the one hand, and the southern Russian steppes, on the other, clearly argued that the Black Death had its origins in Devignant’s southern Russian reservoir – that is, pretty much where Benedictow and Sussman say it did: somewhere along the shores of the Caspian sea or on the steppes directly to the north, which were then dominated by the Golden Horde.
Reviewing this rather lengthy post, it seems possible to suggest that the evidence that the Black Death originated in the far eastern part of Asia, somewhere in northern China or the steppe directly to the north of the Great Wall, is not supported by much evidence. To argue that it was, in essence, a Chinese disease requires us to make links between “pestilences” that may or may not have been connected, to assume that the disease could make its way across the vast steppe-lands at a time when east-west trade was probably very much disrupted, and to have done all this without impressing any chroniclers in its path with its uniqueness in such a way that they felt compelled to make a record of its symptoms. The Chinese origin theory probably also runs foul of Occam’s Razor; if there was indeed a plague reservoir in the vicinity of the Caspian, an east Asian origin would be far from the most parsimonious explanation for the presence of the Black Death in the Crimea in 1346.
We can conclude, then, that the reason that you have found it so difficult to locate information on the passage of the Black Death through Asia in the fourteenth century is very possibly that it never actually made such a journey, remaining instead a pandemic restricted to Europe and the Middle East.
Ole J. Benedictow, The Black Death 1346-1353: the Complete History (2004); Bruce Campbell, The Great Transition: Climate, Disease and Society in the Late Medieval World (2016); John D. Durand, “The Population Statistics of China, A.D. 2–1953,” Population Studies 13 (1960); John Norris, “East or West? The Geographic Origin of the Black Death,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 51 (1977); Maria A. Spyrou et al, “Historical Y. pestis Genomes Reveal the European Black Death as the Source of Ancient and Modern Plague Pandemics”, Cell Host & Microbe 19 (2016); John Stewart, Nestorian Missionary Enterprise: the Story of a Church on Fire (1928); George D. Sussman, “Was the Black Death in India and China?”, Bulletin of the History of Medicine 85 (2011)
Q: In Les Misérables, Victor Hugo claims that children were kidnapped during the reign of Louis XV, and rumours were whispered of the King’s ‘purple baths’. What is Hugo referring to here, and would the rumours have been common knowledge to a reader at the time?
A: For those not familiar with Hugo’s work, the passage you are referring to reads as follows:
These abandonments of children, be it said, in passing, were not discouraged by the old monarchy [that is, the Bourbon Ancien Regime which ruled until the French Revolution – Hugo was writing of the early 1830s]… Moreover, the monarchy sometimes had need of children, and then it skimmed the street…
Under Louis XV, children disappeared in Paris; the police carried them off – nobody knows for what mysterious use. People whispered with affright horrible conjectures about the purple baths of the king. Barbier speaks ingenuously of these things. It sometimes happened that the officers running short of children, took some who had fathers. The fathers, in despair, rushed upon the officers. In such cases, the parlement interfered and hung – whom? The officers? No; the fathers.”
Hugo is referring here to rumours that abounded during the reign of Louis XV (1715-1774) that the monarch was afflicted with leprosy and was willing to try almost anything in his desperate search for a cure. His source is the lawyer Edmund Barbier’s diaries, published in Paris as the Chronique de la Régence et du Règne de Louis XV (1718–1763) in eight volumes in 1857. According to Barbier, writing on 16 May 1750,
“For a week now people have been saying that police constables in disguise are roaming around various quarters of Paris, abducting children, boys and girls from five or six years old to ten or more, and loading them into the carriages which they have ready waiting nearby.”
Barbier added that it was generally believed that these agents of the monarchy worked on behalf of
“a leprous prince whose cure required a bath in human blood, and there being no blood purer than that of children, these were seized so as to be bled from all their limbs.”
Jones notes that while these rumours did not specifically identify which member of the Bourbon line was leprous, “in accounts which circulated widely at court and which reached the ears of the king himself, that leprous prince was metamorphosed into the morally and spiritually unclean and sexually debauched Louis XV”, leading the king to complain that “the wicked people… are calling me a Herod.”
I should point out that there is, of course, no evidence at all that Louis or any other Bourbon prince had leprosy – but the idea that he might suffer from the disease made perfect sense in contemporary terms. Leprosy had long been believed to be the corporeal manifestation of sin, and there were Biblical precedents for this – in 2 Chronicles, King Ozias is punished for his sins by being afflicted with leprosy. Plenty of other important theological commentators, moreover, made the same association: St Ambrose had said that Jews would be eaten away by leprosy of the body and soul for failing to recognise Christ; St Jerome wrote that leprosy was God’s punishment for the original sin of Adam and Eve; and Gregory of Tours, writing in the 6th century, reported a case in which a thief who had stolen from a church was struck down by leprosy in consequence. Since Louis XV was known to be lazy and feckless; since he was frequently criticised for his inability to rule either energetically or justly; since he spent huge sums of public money on personal pleasures; and since he publicly acknowledged that he kept mistresses, it was no great stretch to assume that he was precisely the sort of monarch who might attract the wrath of a vengeful God.
As for the “purple baths” that Hugo mentions: these were, it appears, imagined to be literally baths of blood. The French “pourpre” is redder than the English “purple”, and the word is often used to refer to the colour of blood, as in the Jean Reno vehicle Les rivières pourpres (2000) – which can be translated as “The Crimson Rivers“. And blood had long been imagined to be a cure for leprosy. It was closely associated with the concepts of vigour and healing, and it wasn’t unknown for rulers to drink blood – according to Maluf, Pope Innocent VIII was given “a draught of blood from three youths for strength and rejuvenation” in 1492, and in fact the idea that the strength and vigour of the young could pass to the sick or elderly via their blood was the main reason why doctors began experimenting with blood transfusion during the sixteenth century.
The use of blood to treat leprosy had been noted as early as the time Pliny (1st century BC), who in book 26 of his Natural History suggested that the “divine kings” of ancient Egypt were allowed, by reason of their divinity, to seek this remedy if stricken with the disease: it was, he wrote,
“deadly for the people when it afflicted the kings, for their baths were usually prepared with human blood for treating it.”
This short passage, Demaitre notes, fuelled “feverish fantasies” in doctors and in other writers, and the idea that restorative baths could be prepared from human blood crops up sufficiently frequently for us to trace its progress across the centuries. Hagiographies of the Emperor Constantine (4th century AD) suggested that, prior to his conversion to Christianity, he had been advised by his priests “to have three thousand children slaughtered and to bathe in their warm blood” as a cure for leprosy – his refusal to countenance the idea was advanced as an early sign of his incipient holiness. An 11th century Latin text, similarly, advised that a leper could recover by bathing in the blood of two infant children, and Hildegard of Bingen recommended the use of menstrual blood as a cure for leprosy brought on by “sexual incontinence”.
So it is not actually that surprising that the people of Paris were willing to believe that, if their king truly did suffer from leprosy, he might seek to kidnap and murder enough children to fill a tub with their fresh, vigorous young blood. And certainly belief in this rumour was strong enough to spark trouble in Paris when the fantasy of murderous monarchs collided with the reality of a Paris police drive to sweep the streets of the French capital of vagrants in 1749-50.
The anti-vagrancy drive had nothing to do with Louis XV and his health, and it was merely a coincidence that it was embarked on at a time when the rumour that the king was leprous was widely believed in Paris. Its roots actually lay in an instruction issued late in 1749 by the Lieutenant General [commander] of the Paris police, Nicolas-René Berryer (1703-62) – a protégé of Louis XV’s mistress the Marquise de Pompadour, but also an innovative officer who is generally credited with both the creation of the Sûreté [“Security Office”] and a domestic espionage system based on networks of police spies. Berryer ordered that
“all beggars and vagrants found in the streets of Paris…of whatever age or sex, shall be arrested and taken to prison, there to be detained for as long as shall be deemed necessary.”
In practice, however, it proved much easier to catch children than adult vagrants, and since the Paris police were being rewarded on the basis of the number of “beggars” they could arrest, they detained a disproportionate number of youngsters – enough for the locals to assume that the round-up was being specifically directed against them. Berryer then further compounded matters by issuing another order for the detention of “all children of workers and bourgeois alike caught gambling in the squares and market places along with other little rascals and vagabonds.” This guaranteed that at least some of those arrested had parents and other relatives on hand to protest the new policies – hence the outbreak of disorder.
It was widely assumed that the children caught up in this drive were not merely being imprisoned in Paris or relocated outside the city. The truth was that the six children whose arrest sparked the rioting in May 1750 were carted off to Le Grand Châtelet, a fortress on the right bank of the Seine, and that others, arrested later, were taken to another prison at Bicêtre, while at least some of the vagrant children detained in the round-ups, meanwhile, are generally believed to have been transported to help populate the French territories in Canada and along the Mississippi. Rumour, however, insisted that they were actually being arrested in order to be supplied to the Bourbon court, and according to one police report, a spy haunting a tavern near the Place des Victoires heard a local woman claim that they would have their revenge for these atrocities: “Our women of Les Halles will go to Versailles to dethrone the King and tear his eyes out.”
The result was serious rioting in at least six areas of the French capital, during which at least 20 people, including one royal official suspected of kidnapping children, were killed. Three of those involved were arrested and hanged for public order offences, and – intriguingly – the police (apparently seeking to distract attention from their own heavy-handedness) were responsible for the unleashing of another rumour: that the riots had been provoked by mysterious “men in black” who worked their way through the crowds assembling on Paris’s streets, and offered money to those willing to start trouble.
It’s worth pausing, in conclusion, to consider the rumour of these “men in black.” Farge & Revel note that the “basic premise” of the contemporary police was that
“disorder cannot exist without someone being guilty of causing it. The police knew perfectly well what had enraged the people of Paris and for the most part they freely admitted it, some of them even going so far as to deplore their colleagues’ actions. However this was rarely put forward as a valid explanation for the revolt. Since, in their view, collective aggression and street violence could never be justified in themselves, they drew on a powerful set of unshakeable beliefs to explain the causes of the situation. One of the strongest of these theories was that if peace was under threat and violence unleashed, it had to be the work of malign forces infiltrating the social body in Paris. The forces of law and order had always been quick to recognize these pernicious invaders.
One thing I am told which I can hardly believe is that at the height of the disturbances… there were three or four individuals pretending to be drunk who were handing money out to people saying, ‘Here, my friends, here are six francs, go and buy some broom handles to attack these rascals with.’ If that were true, it means there were secret leaders to the sedition. Only time and further information will reveal the truth of the matter.
“Despite his careful wording, prosecutor [A.N.] Gueulette, who recorded this rumour of 23 May , did not have much faith in the existence of ‘men in black’ supposedly emerging from the shadows to lead the uprising… Clearly he was not convinced by the enigmatic presence of those archetypal agents provocateurs who were almost too perfect and certainly too elusive to be credible.”
So, there appears to have been no official follow up by the Paris police to the emergence of this rumour. However, I certainly should add that precisely the same supposed mechanism of rumour-generation was very much in evidence again a generation later at the time of the “Great Fear” – a series of rumours that swept France in July-August 1789, during the immediate run-up to the French Revolution. These rumours suggested that the country was being either invaded or scoured by what were variously supposed to have been the Austrians, brigands or gangs of pirates, and once again there were certainly reports that the rumours were spread by mysterious and unidentifiable agitators. However outlandish they may appear to us today, popular belief and wild rumour were, and are, capable of causing real and significant problems for the people who find themselves caught up in the ways that they play out.
Peter Lewis Allen, The Wages of Sin: Sex and Disease, Past and Present (2000); Clare Anderson & Hannah Maxwell-Stuart, Convict Labour and the Western Empires, 1415–1954 (2013); Richard Mowery Andrews, Law, Magistracy, and Crime in Old Regime Paris, 1735-1789, vol.1 (1994); Luke Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine: A Malady of the Whole Body (2007); Arlette Farge & Jacques Revel, The Vanishing Children of Paris: Rumor and Politics before the French Revolution (1993); Victor Hugo, Les Misérables; Colin Jones, The Great Nation: France from Louis XV to Napoleon (2003); Georges Lefebvre, The Great Fear of 1789: Rural Panic in Revolutionary France (1932; 2014); NSR Maluf, “History of blood transfusion” in Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 9 (1954); Alan Williams, The Police of Paris, 1718-1789 (1979).
Hat-tip to Redditor u/Commissar_Sae for information about the French word pourpre.
Q: Do we know of any cases in the Catholic Church when the Advocatus Diaboli (or Devil’s Advocate) successfully argued against someone becoming a saint?
Yes – at least it’s very likely, but it is far from clear which. Kenneth Woodward, in his Making Saints, notes that “many cases do not succeed” – but since judgement is rendered on an overall case, comprising many documents other than the arguments of the Devil’s Advocate, and since no commentary is issued on the judgements that are rendered, it is impossible to be sure whether any cases have been rejected explicitly as a result of the Advocate’s work. In addition, while the prospective candidate for sainthood has already passed several other tests by the point his case reaches the pope for final approval, and while the Advocate’s material is the only explicitly negative portion of the documentation that remains, the decision is the pontiff’s – and a reigning pope is perfectly entitled to take account of some other, unstated, factor not contained in the process documents in rendering a judgement.
Breaking all this down a little further, it’s important to recognise two things. First, the lawyer popularly known as the Devil’s Advocate was not literally some evil agent provocateur seeking to throw a spanner in the works of the church establishment; rather, he was a key bastion of orthodoxy, whose official title was actually Promoter of the Faith, and whose role was to help ensure the worthiness of candidates for sainthood. Secondly, while the procedure created by the church to assess such cases (which was in place from 1587 until its abolition under John Paul II in 1983) was adversarial – with the Devil’s Advocate debating with an advocate for the candidate for sainthood – the role of the Promoter of the Faith was only one part of a much larger process. His advocacy, moreover, was never conducted in the form of an actual trial. Rather, the two advocates pitched written arguments back and forth, often over a period of decades, seeking to hone their arguments regarding the case before them.
The two advocates taking part in this stage of the canonisation process (called the Ordinary Process) were supplied with materials assembled by the local bishop, who was charged – as a first step – with collecting evidence and with determining that the candidate was not the object of a public cult. For several hundred years, the next stage in the process was for this evidence to be reviewed by censors for any evidence of unorthodox teachings or of heresy; it seems certain that far more prospective saints were disbarred as a result of these two steps than were ever failed by the work of the Devil’s Advocate. One example is Jean-Jacques Olier, the 17th century French founder of the Society of Saint-Sulpice, who was proceeding slowly towards canonisation in the 19th century when a publication of his containing unorthodox views on the Virgin Mary was uncovered. Olier’s process was immediately halted. Since 1940, the advocates of a candidate for sainthood also have to obtain a declaration of nihil obstat (“nothing objectionable”) from Rome, which is based on a search of the files of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith – the group responsible for maintaining the well-known Index Librorum Prohibitorum, or list of banned books.
The adversarial phase in which the Devil’s Advocate participated began after these checks. It started with the selection of a “postulator”, a lawyer who would argue the prospective saint’s cause, who was selected from a group of canon lawyers (still in existence and currently around 200 strong) recognised by the Congregation. The postulator, in turn, selected his own Devil’s Advocate from among a smaller group of around two dozen lawyers licensed by the Holy See to handle such cases. Both men received copies of the materials produced by the local bishop, examined them, and began to engage in a dialectic, which might, as noted above, go on for decades, but which eventually produced a printed positio which incorporated the materials produced by the bishop and the key arguments of both advocates.
It was this positio that was considered by the cardinals and prelates associated with the canonisation process, and which went to the pope for approval. But this was not (and is not) the end of the process. Cases that passed this initial test went into a new “Apostolic Process” in which the office of the Promoter of the Faith drew up a new set of queries relating to the virtues of the candidate, which had to be considered by a new tribunal held in the candidate’s diocese. This collected additional evidence – from eyewitnesses where possible – which was sent back to Rome and used in the preparation of a new document, the informatio, which systematically laid out the case.
The Devil’s Advocate and the advocate for the putative saint would again register points for and against the candidate, based this time on examination of the informatio, which would again be printed, and would again be studied by the Congregation; and this entire process was repeated three times, with the advocates on either side getting repeated opportunities to advance new arguments and respond to existing ones. The pope himself would take part in the third of these exchanges, and only candidates who received the final approval of the pontiff could proceed.
But even that was not the end of the procedure – those candidates who survived examination of their credentials still had to go through the processes of beatification and then canonisation, meaning that between two and four miracles had to be attributed to them and accepted as genuine as a result of separate studies by the Consulta Medica, a tribunal of Catholic doctors tasked with assessing evidence assembled to show that a reported cure could not be anything but miraculous. In addition, beatification was subject to a final sign off which might be, and sometimes was, put on hold if the candidature was politically sensitive (for example, in the case of a martyr who had died at the hands of a regime that was still in power by the time he or she came up for consideration). Typically there has always been a further delay between beatification and canonisation, during which more miracles are required to occur. Since the late 19th century, the act of canonisation itself has been made by infallible decree of the pontiff, meaning that it is not something that can ever be reconsidered or withdrawn.
Finally, it seems incontestable that the pontiff takes a key role not only in the process of canonisation, but also in the selection and acceptance of candidates, and can steamroll the entire process if he wishes – as John Paul II did in 2002 in the case of Juan Diego Cuauhlatoatzin, the main actor in the supposed visions of the Virgin Mary that took place at Guadalupe in Mexico in the early 16th century. There is considerable doubt as to whether Juan Diego actually existed at all, so his canonisation is good evidence that the elaborate process set out above is, at least in certain circumstances, more window-dressing than serious investigation in any case. So is the dramatic increase in the number of beatifications and canonisations dealt with by John Paul II, who not only abolished the devil’s advocate’s role but also, in the course of his 27-year reign, approved the candidacies of more people than all other popes put together since the modern system was created in the 17th century. So, arguably, is the controversial canonisation of Josemaría Escrivá, founder of Opus Dei, which was at least in part the product of the investment of significant resources in creating and arguing his case by the members of his own order.
Still, all in all, the process of canonisation has been, more often than not, a very protracted one (Benedict XIV, in the 18th century, set the timescale as a minimum of 100 years, a ruling that is no longer in effect; John Paul II was canonised in 2014, only nine years after his death). It’s one in which the Devil’s Advocate played an important but far from central role. Candidates for sainthood might fall out of the process at any time, for a variety of reasons, and while successful objections lodged by the Promoter of the Faith are certainly one possible cause of the failure of a candidacy, such failures were never formally announced as such.
John L. Allen, Jr., The Future Church: How Ten Trends are Revolutionizing the Catholic Church (2009); John Cornwall, Hitler’s Pope: the Secret History of Pius XII (2000); John Cornwall, “A game of miracles: how saints are made,” New Statesman 25 July 2013; Donald S. Prudio, Certain Sainthood: Canonization and the Origins of Papal Infallibility (2015); Kenneth Woodward, Making Saints: How the Catholic Church Determines Who Becomes a Saint, Who Doesn’t, and Why (1996)
Q: In 1801, Tsar Paul I of Russia was assassinated by conspirators funded by the British government. How did the British have the means to assassinate a monarch of a European superpower at the beginning of the 19th century?
A: This is a very interesting question, the answer to which opens up some fascinating windows not only into the early history of national intelligence services, but also into our understanding of the historians that study them.
Let’s begin, for those unfamiliar with this period, with a brief history of Tsar Paul, son of Catherine the Great, and with the events surrounding his murder.
Paul came to the throne on his mother’s death, in 1796. By that time he was 42 years old, married, and had an adult son, Alexander, who was 19. The new Tsar had spent his early adulthood being kept at arm’s length from the business of ruling Russia, and the historical consensus is that he proved to be a generally incompetent, capricious and poor-tempered ruler. His foreign policy saw him change sides in the Napoleonic Wars in 1800; having been elected as Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller in 1798, and been promised that the order’s base, Malta, would be handed over to him after the French were expelled from it, the Tsar was enraged when the British reneged on the deal and retained control of the island. In retaliation, Paul expelled the British ambassador to Russia, Charles Whitworth, and allowed himself to be persuaded to drop out of the Second Coalition against Napoleon in favour of joining Prussia and Sweden in the so-called League of Armed Neutrality.
On top of all that, in January 1801 the Tsar committed to an attack on British India, ordering the Don Cossack host to proceed through Khiva and Afghanistan to the Indus, destroy the British armies there, “liberate the oppressed from their overlords, gently bring them under our dependence, and divert their trade to us.” Astoundingly, it seems Paul believed that this incredibly ambitious project, conducted in harsh conditions in midwinter, would not only succeed, but could be completed in little more than a month.
So, while it’s unclear exactly how much the British knew of the Cossack threat, London certainly had strong reasons for wanting the Tsar off the throne in the weeks and months before Paul’s death, and we also know that the British were preparing to take military action against Russia; shortly before Paul’s assassination, a Royal Navy squadron sailed into the Baltic with orders to make for St Petersburg.
Britain was, nonetheless, far from the only enemy that the Tsar had. Some accounts of Paul’s foreign policy suggest his withdrawl from the Second Coalition was a product not of British action over Malta, but of his distrust of Austria, which, he feared, was preparing to annex territory in Italy. In addition, the Tsar had as many domestic enemies as one might expect of a ruler who was prone to violent rages and the imposition of severe discipline, and who was also in the process of implementing a number of relatively progressive policies – several of which had the potential to upset elements of Russia’s ruling classes. For example, Paul attempted to reduce the burdens of serfdom, clamped down on corruption in the Russian government, and preferred to appoint professional bureaucrats over gentleman place-men in his administration.
The plot to remove the emperor is generally agreed to have been led by the military governor of St Petersburg, Count Pahlen, and approved by the heir to the throne – certainly it’s very telling that when Alexander became Tsar, he failed to punish any of the conspirators who had had removed his father. Pahlen assembled a group of discontented nobles and senior army officers, who in March 1801 forced their way into the Tsar’s palace, either bearing a pre-prepared abdication document, or at least having the intention to force Paul to write and sign one. When Paul resisted he was strangled and trampled to death.
Historians remain divided as to the motives of the regicides. The consensus, it is fair to say, favours the idea that the assassins were a poorly organised group who were drunk when they burst into the imperial apartments and had no clear idea of how they expected events to pan out, and that Paul’s death was not only unintended, but not necessary to their plans. Nonetheless, some evidence has been advanced to suggest that Britain was behind the murder, and that it had been planned in London and co-ordinated by Whitworth. Some of it is merely circumstantial: one of the conspirators, Levin von Bennigsen, was a Hanoverian mercenary, though he was apparently a late addition to the plot, and not apparently one with any significant ties to the British; and James Talbot, who was a close associate of Whitworth’s, was apparently relatively close by, in Sweden, in the run-up to the murder. The most widely cited piece of evidence, meanwhile, is a passing mention in a letter of Napoleon’s, which darkly accused British spies of being responsible for the murder.
Nothing in the letter, however, suggests that Napoleon had any specific evidence to back up the suggestion. All of which leaves us with the work of Elizabeth Sparrow, whose Historical Journal paper on the UK government’s “Alien Office” – set up to monitor foreigners in Britain during the Napoleonic Wars, but, Sparrow claims, later a sort of precursor intelligence agency – and book Secret Service: British Agents in France, 1792-1815 contain the only referenced claims concerning British involvement in the murder of Tsar Paul.
it is in the nature of the service that only records of failures were preserved, for the very good reason that they were necessary to protect the individuals concerned… Success must be attributed to conventional warfare or diplomatic treaty and never to the secret service. I have not therefore attempted to include the one great success in the years discussed, but there is reason to believe that the assassination of Paul I was directed from the alien office, almost certainly with the assistance of Calonne [who was a French royalist and the former Minister of Finance to Louis XVI]. There is a paper in the foreign office files which suggests that Lord Whitworth laid the basis of the plan, and the French records unequivocally state that that was so. They also name an agent, Charles-Philippe de Bosset, a Swiss officer from Neuchatel, whose employment by the alien office is well documented, as the man who is believed to have taken the order from London to St Petersburg for the operation to be put into effect.
Unfortunately, Sparrow never quotes directly from the documents she cites – her British archive reference is “Unsigned communication, dated Paris, 13 Mai 1801, P.R.O., F.O. 95” and her French one is “Jean Tulard, ‘Whitworth, Sir Charles’, Dictionnaire Napoleon (Paris, 1987), p. 1750; Constantin de Grunwald, L’Assassinat de Paul 1er Tsar de Russie (Paris, 1960), pp. 174-5″, so it’s impossible to say with any certainty whether they are actually as incriminating as she suggests. It’s worth pointing out that few academics have followed her lead, with the exception of William R. Nester, a professor of political science at St John’s, Newfoundland, whose book on British power in the period not only follows Sparrow (without citing any additional evidence), but rather surprisingly uses her work to allege that
circumstantial evidence links the Alien Office to such “wet operations” as the attempted murder of Napoleon Bonaparte in 1800 and actual murder of Tsar Paul in 1801.
It certainly does seem to be the case that there was sufficient discontent within senior circles in St Petersburg to make it relatively unsurprising that Paul was deposed, and that British intervention would not have been required to bring about this result. Similarly, the half-organised, semi-farcical assassination that actually occurred was not the sort of plot that could only ever have been brought to fruition with foreign help; it was also scarcely something that required “funding,” and no one has produced evidence that the British had any reason to be certain that Paul’s son Alexander would return Russia to the coalition fold, which he eventually did – rather than carry on with his father’s attempts to invade India, which Napoleon certainly encouraged him to do. Conversely, it is possible to make the argument that Sparrow, like other intelligence historians, is prone to exaggerate the influence and impact of secret service operations, and also true that her depiction of the Alien Office as a ruthless and efficient proto-SOE hardly squares with the amateurish, uncertain, thuggish murder that actually took place in St Petersburg in March 1801 – a conspiracy that, inter alia, involved the leader of the plot and half his men getting so lost in the palace gardens that they did not arrive until after the emperor was dead. And, very definitely, the British did not have the capacity, in 1801, to assassinate the Tsar without significant co-operation from a large number of the most senior figures in the Russian state.
Finally, I should point out that Sparrow was not a professional historian, and came to her study of the Alien Office via an unusual path – so, while she deserves praise for her diligent and imaginative research methods, it is permissible to wonder whether her accounts are as cautious as would be considered ideal for an historian of this rather complex period of history. Certainly I, reading her stuff, thought it involved quite a lot of unproven assumptions and was terrible at placing the activities of the Alien Office within the broader context of British strategy and aims in the Napoleonic period.
Main sources were:
Richard Cavendish, “The murder of Tsar Paul I”, History Today 51:3 (2001)
Janet Hartley et al, Russia and the Napoleonic Wars (2015)
William R. Nester, Titan: The Art of British Power in the Age of Revolution and Napoleon (2016)
Andrew Roberts, Napoleon the Great (2016)
Elizabeth Sparrow, “The Alien Office, 1792-1806”, Historical Journal 33:2 (1990)
Elizabeth Sparrow, Secret Service: British Agents in France, 1792-1815 (1999)
But I also skimmed through of a number of period studies and mainstream histories of the period, including AC Czartoryski, Memoirs of Prince Adam Czartoryski and His Correspondence with Alexander I; Marie-Pierre Rey, Alexander I: The Tsar Who Defeated Napoleon (2016); and WB Walsh, Readings in Russian History: From the Reign of Paul to Alexander III (1963). As I say, these also tend to suggest that the conspirators’ intention was to force an abdication, not murder Paul.
Czartoryski’s verdict is:
It will be seen from the above narrative how easy it would have been for the undertaking to have been foiled by an accident, notwithstanding the precautions which had been taken to ensure its success.
With regard to your final point: we just don’t know for certain. But Czartoryski says he was willing to countenance keeping his father in some sort of detention while he acted as regent, and the presumption is that he had been an active, if not especially willing, participant in the plot, even if he had not wanted it to end in his father’s murder. In the early years of his reign, Czartoryski concludes,
Alexander’s position with regard to his father’s murderers was an extremely difficult and painful one. For a few month he believed himself to be at their mercy, but it was chiefly his conscience and a feeling of natural equity which prevented him from giving up to justice the most guilty of the conspirators. He knew that there was a general sympathy for the objects of the conspiracy, and that those who had personally taken part in their realisation had only decided to do so when they were assured of his consent. It would have been difficult under these circumstances to distinguish between degrees of guilt; every member of the society of St Petersburg was more or less an accomplice in the fatal deed…
Q: Did Coca-Cola produce a clear version of Coke for General Zhukov that could be disguised as vodka? If so, for how long was this going on?
A: Zhukov’s “white Coke” was a product of the Coca-Cola Company’s Technical Observer programme, established with the help of the US Army during World War II as part of a plan to raise morale among American troops by ensuring they had a constant supply of their preferred non-alcoholic beverage.
The story seems to have originated in interviews conducted by Mark Pendergrast in the late 1980s and early 1990s for his unauthorised history of Coca-Cola. He reports that, in the course of the war, Coke sent 248 TOs into the main combat zones, each of them exempt from conscription thanks to “a remarkably cozy arrangement” with US draft boards. The TOs were charged with installing Coke manufacturing and bottling plants behind the lines and ensuring supplies of the proprietary syrup from which the drink was made came through safely from the States. Between them, they were responsible for serving the US armed forces a total of 10 billion Cokes in the course of the war. The scheme was a propaganda triumph for the Americans (and Coke), with MacArthur personally autographing the first bottle of Coke to come off the production line in the Philippines after the liberation. Eisenhower was also a supporter of the programme, and according to the Times-Herald (19 June 1945), on his return to Washington after the war,
After feasting copiously at the Statler luncheon yesterday, Gen. Eisenhower was asked if he wished anything else.
‘Could somebody get me a Coke?’ he asked.
After polishing off the soft drink, the General said he had one more request. Asked what he wanted, he answered:
Coke had withdrawn from central Europe during the war, though thanks to the efforts of some remarkably loyal local employees, their operation in Germany had managed to stay in existence during the conflict under another name and without its lead product – Fanta being the most famous replacement drink it introduced during this period. But the Company took aggressive steps to recover its position after the war ended, opening 38 new plants in southern Europe in the years 1946-47 alone in an effort to prevent Pepsi from establishing itself in what had once been Coke territories.
One of Coke’s TO’s in Europe was Mladin Zarubica, a wartime PT boat captain who was sent to Austria in 1946 to supervise the installation of a massive new bottling plant there, four city blocks long and capable of producing 24,000 cases of the beverage per day. Zarubica’s relations with the US Army were typically close – the first consignment of the sugar required by the new plant was guarded by 500 GIs to prevent it being plundered by black marketeers. He also had sufficient influence to get a huge villa in Berchtesgaden refurbished as a base for corporate entertainment. “We had waiting lists to come there,” he recalled. “Senators, potentates, you name it.”
It was Zarubica who arranged for the engineering of Zhukov’s “white Coke.” According to his account, Eisenhower had introduced Zhukov to Coke during their time together in the Occupied Zones, when Zhukov was in charge of the Russian zone and Eisenhower of the American one. Zhukov liked the drink enough to request Eisenhower’s subordinate, Mark Clark, for a supply of it, but with one proviso:
It couldn’t look anything like Coke. As the central Russian war hero, Zhukov knew he couldn’t be seen drinking an American imperialist symbol. Clark passed the request up the line to President Truman, who summoned Jim Farley [Chairman of the Board of the Coca-Cola Export Corporation], and soon word filtered back to Zarubica, who found a chemist to take out the caramel coloring. Then the Coca-Cola man had the Crown Cork and Seal Company in Brussels make a special straight, clear bottle with a white cap and a red star in the middle.
Zarubica’s first shipment of White Coke for Zhukov amounted to 50 cases of the drink. In addition to the benefit to Soviet/US relations, there was also a plum for Coke: “The regular Coke supply from [the manufacturing plant at] Lambach had to pass through the Russian zone to reach its Vienna warehouse. While other supplies often waited weeks for the Russian bureaucracy to allow them through, the Coke shipment was never stopped.”
So Zarubica’s account explains how and why Zhukov’s white Coke came to be manufactured, but unfortunately he gives us no clue as to how long it was made for. We also need to be aware that the whole incident has been filtered through the lens of the – very often self-glorifying – Coke company tradition; in fact, outside the Coke tradition, I’ve seen no evidence the incident took place. There’s good evidence in Zarubica’s book The Year of the Rat that he could be a highly unreliable narrator; the book suggests that the guide the hired to hunt chamois during a holiday in the Tyrol around this time turned out to be Martin Bormann.
But there is one interesting bit of corroborating evidence. Pendergrast’s book contains an appendix discussing the famous “secret formula” for the Coke syrup that lies at the heart of the Company’s IP and contributes substantially to its mystique. This formula, notoriously, is available only to a tiny number of Company high-ups, there are restrictions in place to prevent all those who know it travelling together on the same plane, and in 1977 the Company withdrew from India rather than share the formula with the Indian government – which had demanded sight of it as a condition for Coke continuing to trade in India.
In the course of his research, Pendergrast uncovered what he believed to be the original formula in the Coke archives – unlabelled and apparently missed by the Company archivists. When he interviewed Zarubica, and mentioned he had a Coke formula, the former TO responded:
“Oh, really? So do I. The Company gave me one when I had to take the colour out for Zhukov. Want to see it?”
I did indeed. When the photocopy of his January 4, 1947, correspondence arrived, it contained exactly the same formula that I had found in the archives – same amounts, same format, even the same misspelling of “F.E. Coco.” The only difference was that Zarubica’s formula was incomplete, leaving off the final two ingredients in 7X [the flavouring at the heart of the Company’s formula]. It appeared they hadn’t wanted to release the complete formula and had taken the precaution of altering it in this fashion… [leaving] enough for his chemist to figure out how to turn brown Coke to white.
Of course Zarubica could still have been lying about the Zhukov incident – but, if so, for what reason would Coke have sent a mere TO a copy of its sacred formula? He had no need of it to run a manufacturing or bottling plant, since Coke always made up the syrup in the US and shipped it out to overseas partners. That was the way it ensured the secret was kept. And Zarubica never claimed to have done anything else that would have involved him in tampering with the formula to produce a variant Coke.
So since Pendergrast was not a Coke man (and Coke wasn’t happy he published the original formula in his book), I’d say it’s not a bad bit of supporting evidence.
Mark Pendergrast, For God, Country and Coca-Cola: The Unauthorized History of the Great American Soft Drink and the Company That Makes It (1993); Mladin Zarubica, The Year of the Rat (1964).
Q: Why did Poland have lower rates of Black Death than other European countries during the 1300s?
I’m in the middle of creating an essay/presentation on this topic, and I’m having trouble finding concrete, sourced info. I’ve read anecdotal information on Reddit, Quora, etc. about the leadership of King Casimir the Great and the lack of cat-killing playing a role, among other things. What I really need is some quality, sourced primary or secondary information about the topic.
A: I agree with you that this question deserves proper investigation, and a better sourced answer to what is a pretty frequently posted query. My contribution is this short critical review of sources. I need to start by stressing that I do not read Polish and that the real answer, insofar as one does exist or can exist, is almost certainly going to be found in specialist economic and demographic studies done by Polish-speaking scholars. I’d strongly encourage anyone able to supplement our knowledge with information drawn from such sources to do so.
That said, I think we can make a couple of basic points that take us further than we’ve gone so far. The first is that Poland has not always been associated with low incidences of plague deaths. Something happened at some point in the 20th century to change our ideas as to how the relative incidence of plague in Poland should be viewed, and it’s interesting and revealing to investigate what exactly that “something” was, and to what extent it was based on heavy-duty primary source research in Poland.
My second point is that there is some reason to suppose that the association of Poland with low incidence of plague is a product not of any actual variance in the death rate, but of lack of sources or lack of research. Ziegler, in his influential popular history of the Black Death (1969), makes the point that “until quite recently it was accepted tradition that the plague scarcely penetrated to Castile, Galicia and Portugal”; but he accepts that more detailed investigation of these regions dispelled the idea. This seems important to me, especially as discussions of Poland as mysteriously almost “plague free”, and forming a dramatic contrast to the rest of Europe, are pretty much entirely an internet phenomenon; while historians of the period, and even historians of plague, concede that the region did experience the Black Death somewhat differently to the lands to the west, they do not see that history as so different that they seem to have felt compelled to launch in-depth investigations to understand why; the explanation most commonly suggested in scholarly texts is that the population density of the area in this period was too low to allow the disease to be transmitted readily. Hence it seems to me to be at the very least possible that the idea that the Polish experience of the Black Death was unique, or almost so, is actually wrong, and that the explanations you cite for the supposed lesser incidence of plague deaths in the region (no cat-killing, the leadership of Casimir the Great) are post-hoc rationalisations – attempts to find explanations that fit the supposed evidence – rather than being sourced in contemporary materials.
Finally, I have to wonder to what extent lack of contemporary source materials impacts on the difficulty of discussing what happened in Poland during the plague years. Assessing the number of deaths caused by the Black Death is a notoriously difficult thing to do, even in countries with significant quantities of extant records, with estimates for total mortality varying dramatically from author to author; even today, after decades of intensive research, one can read estimates of mortality across Europe that vary from a third up to a half up to 60 percent of total population, so it would be astonishing if there was anything like a consensus for Poland, and indeed the materials I’ve read suggest there are dramatic instances of disagreement on crucial matters such as the approximate population of Poland (and even what constituted the “borders of Poland”) in the period 1000-1500. Until such matters are resolved (if it is even possible to do so), we will never be in a position to make any statements about the demographic impact of the Black Death in Poland with any confidence.
Part I: A survey of histories of the plague in Poland, 1832-2015
OK, let’s start with a survey of what has been said about the impact of the Black Death in Poland over time.
• Hecker, a once highly renowned German medical historian, says in his On the Black Death (1832), that the plague arrived in Poland from Germany, and cites the chronicle of Jan Długosz (better known to English speakers as Johannes Longinus Dlugloss) Annales seu cronici incliti regni Poloniae (1515) as his authority for the statement that “in Poland the infected were attacked with spitting of blood and died in a few days in such vast numbers that… scarcely a fourth of the inhabitants were left” – that is, he thought mortality in Poland was practically 75%.
• Most other works published around the middle of the nineteenth century mention Poland only in the context of what was then seen as the most interesting and remarkable thing about the plague’s passage through eastern Europe: “it had thus made the circuit of the Black Sea, by way of Constantinople, southern and central Europe, England, the Northern Kingdoms, and Poland, before it reached Russian territories, a phenomenon which has not again occurred with respect to more recent pestilences originating in Asia.” (Buckle’s Common Place Book 556 (1872)
• Sticker, in his monstrous Treatises on the History of Epidemics and Episcopal Doctrine (1908/10), basing himself on two contemporary chronicles, suggests that the Black Death entered Poland from Hungary and caused incredible mortality. He writes that the plague killed half the population and depopulated entire towns and villages. This estimate is in line with the contemporary figure normally given for plague deaths elsewhere in Europe.
• Similarly, the Polish Encyclopædia (1921) states that “long, for instance, did the land bear the traces of the ‘Black Death’… which swept down with unabated fury upon Poland after decimating the populations of Italy, France, England and other countries of western and central Europe.”
• This seems to have been the consensus for some time. As late as 1969, George Deaux, in his The Black Death, 1347, could write that “the Black Death attacked Hungary and Poland at the same time as it appeared in Austria and with the same results. Towns were left totally depopulated…” In this context, it is interesting to note that Deaux (a popular writer) had access to no population studies for the region more recent than Hecker’s and makes the same claims about 75% mortality in Poland.
Then we come to the mid-20th century shift, after which it is generally accepted that something unusual did happen in Poland. Thus for example…
• Perry Anderson’s Lineages of the Absolutist State, a very broad survey first published in 1974, observes that “Poland suffered less from the late feudal crisis than any other country in Eastern Europe; the Black Death (if not ancillary plague) largely passed it by, while its neighbours were ravaged.”
• Joseph Strayer’s Dictionary of the Middle Ages (1982) says that the plague was devastating “in all of eastern Europe save Poland.”
• Norman Davies’s God’s Playground: A History of Poland (1982) states not only that
“Poland escaped the scourge of the Black Death,” but also makes the extraordinary claim that “economic life was not disrupted.”
• And by 1983, a Rutgers professor, Robert S. Gottfried, could confidently state that “Poland lost about a quarter of its population to the plague.”
To the extent that this “something” is defined, it’s generally placed, as I mentioned above, in the context of relative population density – Poland was too sparsely populated to allow the plague to spread as rapidly as it did elsewhere. Sometimes the relative absence of trade – and hence of both travellers and the sort of transport of goods in which infected rats might hitch rides – is also suggested. It has also been argued that the relatively slow and late enserfment of peasants in eastern Europe suggests there was no demographic catastrophe in the region in the mid-14th century.
And the change in position had certainly been well-cemented by 2000:
• Jerzy Lukowski & Hubert Zawadzki, A Concise History of Poland (2005) p.30 suggest that “the Black Death left a sparsely populated Poland largely unscathed“.
• Adam Zamoyski’s popular Poland: A History (2009) goes so far as to state that “most of Poland remained unaffected. The populations of England and France, of Italy and Scandinavia, of Hungary, Switzerland, Germany and Spain were more than halved. Poland’s grew, perhaps as a consequence of conditions elsewhere.”
• But these are survey works, mostly interested in later periods of Polish history, in which rather basic research and sweeping statements may be expected. Robert Frost, in The Oxford History of Poland-Lithuania, provides a more nuanced discussion. He similarly suggests that the “relatively sparsely peopled lands of east central Europe did not suffer as badly as western and southern Europe from the Black Death,” but adds that “Poland was not untouched. Population growth slowed, but its upward trajectory was not reversed, and by the mid fifteenth century the disparity between the density of settlement in Poland and western Europe had ceased.”
Frost goes on to state that the stream of German migrants heading east was “abruptly halted” by the plague, and that this caused the Polish economy to collapse after 1350, in part because of shortages of specie flowing in from the west. This may well be true, but, if so, it would partially or completely mask any impact to Polish population and economic activity caused by the Black Death within the borders of the kingdom, and make it harder to study the population problem in Poland. I think this is an important point, since once we start to consider Poland as an interconnected part of the broader socio-economic history of eastern Europe, we necessarily also have to start wondering about any claims to either its “isolation” or its “uniqueness”, both of which are central to the popular view of Poland as being mysteriously unaffected by the plague.
Part II: Was there anything special about Poland?
So, what can we do to investigate the idea of “Polish exceptionalism” in the spread of the Black Death?
• To begin with, I think that the literature which is available to me suggests it is actually difficult, verging on impossible, to extrapolate any accurate demographic info for Poland in the period before, during and immediately after the Black Death. The sort of detailed, manor-by-manor, records that still survive for some parts of England, for example, and inform works such as Hatcher’s The Black Death: An Intimate History, simply don’t exist. All we have left are chroniclers’ stories (which are notoriously likely to over-estimate the amount of destruction caused, and certainly seem to have informed the 19th century estimates we’ve seen of 75% death rates in Poland), one detailed – but late – economic study, and extremely broad surveys of Poland’s demography, which attempt to extrapolate large figures from isolated bits of information and tiny samples. Thus…
• The chapters by Christopher Dyer (on rural Europe) and Alexsander Gieysztor (on the post-1370 Kingdom of Poland and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania) in The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol.7 help add to our understanding of all this. Specifically, Dyer takes issue with the idea that it is possible to use the enserfment of Poles as an indicator of demographic crisis in the region:
parts of north-eastern Europe – now Poland and the Baltic states – are often cited as following a course opposite to that found in the west. Weak states, an undeveloped urban sector and a powerful nobility meant that peasant conditions deteriorated, beginning in the period of ‘second serfdom,’ as tenants were restricted in their movement and forced to perform heavy labour services. In fact, the peasants of eastern Europe were being brought under serfdom for the first time (they had been encouraged to settle the new lands in the east with privileges and easy terms in earlier centuries.) Enserfment took a long time, beginning in the later years of the fifteenth century, and was not completed until well after 1500 This cannot therefore be seen as an immediate response to any fall in population.
• Gieysztor notes that the population density of Poland in 1370, after the ravages of the plague, was about 8.6 people per square km, based on a total population of about 2m, but this figure is challenged by Frost, who notes it includes “Mazovia, whose princes recognized Casimir’s overlordship, but not that of the Polish kingdom, or of Louis of Anjou.” A second estimate by Kuklo (Demografia Rzecypospolitej przedrohiorowej, 2009, cited by Frost) excludes Silesia but includes Prussia and Mazovia, and suggests an estimated population of 1.25m in 1000 (with a density of 5 per sq.km) rising to 2m in 1370 (8 per sq.km) and 3.4m in 1500 (13 per sq.km).
• I have found only one detailed study which appears to show the impact of the plague on Poland. Two economic historians, Pelc (a Pole, writing in the 1930s) and Abel (a German, writing in the 30s and again in the 50s, and reorganising Pelc’s apparently opaque series of data), organised wage and price data from Krakow for the period beginning in 1369. This is a little late to be ideal, but Abel’s broad conclusion was that the Polish data matched equivalent figures from France and England for the same period; that is, there was a major fall in grain prices, and a major rise in wages, both of which are best explained by a significant decline in population. Benedictow observes that while these figures only relate to one Polish town, they must imply that there was a shortage of labour across at least much of Poland, otherwise the availability of higher wages would have encouraged immigration to Krakow.
These patterns therefore suggest the impact of the plague on Poland was similar to that in western Europe – that is, very significant.
• We can also attempt to trace the idea that Poland’s escape from contagion was a product of special factors – the ideas, frequently encountered online that Casimir the Great “wisely quarantined the borders” or that Polish love of cats was a determining factor. The earliest reference to the former I can find appears in Christine Zuchora-Walske’s Poland (2013), and though I would certainly love to have a contemporary source, I have to point out that even if something of the sort actually was ordered, that’s not proof that an order was effectively implemented, or had a measurable impact.
As for cats – the idea that they helped retard the spread of plague can be traced back online at least to 2010 (though not in the context of Poland), but not to any academic study I have found. I have not seen any evidence that suggests either that cats were commonly massacred in most of Europe in this period because they were associated with the devil, as Hollee Abbee argues, or indeed that the Poles were less likely to kill cats than people of any other group. And it seems well established that cats can act as carriers of both bubonic and pneumonic plague in any case, so the idea that Polish cats were efficiently disposing of diseased rats, without picking up fleas and contracting plague themselves, seems highly dubious (see Kauffman et al; Doll et al, Weiniger et al, all in the sources at the foot of this post).
[We’re actually passing another historical rabbit hole here, one I just don’t have the time right now to explore in any depth. But briefly: it’s possible to trace the idea that there was an extensive slaughter of cats in Europe the period before the Black Death to various discussions of a Papal decretal known as Vox in Rama, issued by Gregory IX in c.1233. Thus Wikipedia features an entry for this document suggesting it was issued to condemn a sect of German heretics uncovered in Mainz who “worshiped devils in the forms of a demonic man and of a diabolical black cat”. The same entry goes on to claim that
Some historians have claimed that Vox in Rama is the first official church document that condemns the black cat as an incarnation of Satan. In the bull the cat is addressed as “master” and the incarnate devil is half-man half-feline in nature. Engels claims that Vox in Rama was “a death warrant for the animal, which would be continued to be slaughtered without mercy until the early 19th century.” It is said that very few all-black cats survive in western Europe as a result.
The sources given for these statements are Donald Engels’s book Classical Cats: The Rise and Fall of the Sacred Cat(1999) and Malcolm Lambert’s The Cathars (1998). I have not found any sources dating to earlier than 1995 that make this claim, or any more solidly scholarly resources, of any date, that suggest the decretal resulted in any persecution of cats whatsoever, but there are plenty of internet resources out there making precisely this claim in extravagant fashion, for example “That One Time the Pope Banned Cats and It Caused the Black Plague”. Kors and Peters stress that Vox in Rama was not a bull (as it is often stated to be), and never entered canon law. The decretal also suggests devils take the form of frogs and toads, so any focused persecution of cats would seem odd. And anyway, even Engels suggests only black cats were killed, presumably leaving Europe’s population of other-coloured cats untouched.
So what we seem to be seeing here is another process of post-hoc rationalisation, where the line of argument – flawed throughout – goes something like this:
- Gregory IX’s decretal suggested that cats were the tools of the devil.
- This prompted a great cat massacre, lasting for centuries, which killed most of the cats of Europe.
- Without cats, the rats that carried the Black Death were able to flourish, significantly increasing the impact and spread of disease.
- Poland escaped the ravages of the plague.
- Therefore the Poles cannot have massacred their cats.
… but the argument itself is obscured by the fact that the articles, essays and blog posts that result from it start with the definite – but unsourced and unproven – statement that the Poles had always had a special relationship with their cats, one so unique and so strong that it allowed them, and only them, to ignore the Papal “orders” contained in Vox in Rama.]
• Finally, it’s worth adding that other explanations have also been hazarded, again apparently only very recently. For example Norman Cantor’s In the Wake of the Plague: The Black Death and the World It Made observes that “the absence of plague in … Poland is commonly explained by the rats’ avoidance of these areas due to the unavailability of food the rodents found palatable.” This seems an extraordinary idea, and it took only a minute’s searching to uncover (for instance in Lardner) Polish chroniclers’ tales featuring “countess multitudes of rats, of an enormous size,” which seems to argue pretty strongly against the idea that such vermin were scarce in the area.
Part III: The smoking gun
So, with all that said, let’s look at the reason for the seismic shift in attitudes to the impact of the plague in Poland, which, as we’ve seen, takes place (at least in the English language sources) in about 1969-74. I think it is possible to identify exactly where the idea that Poland was somehow less badly affected by the Black Death comes from. The clue comes from Philip Ziegler’s best-selling and influential popular history, The Black Death – published in 1969, remember – which states (p.118):
Dr Carpentier has prepared a map of Europe at the time of the Black Death showing the movements and incidence of the plague. Virtually nowhere was left inviolate. Certain areas escaped lightly: Bohemia; large areas of Poland; a mysterious pocket between France, Germany and the Low Countries; tracts of the Pyrenees.
It seems to be Élisabeth Carpentier’s map, then – first published in the French journal Annales in 1962, but given a substantial push in its cross-over into English by Ziegler – which helped to introduce the idea that Poland escaped much of of the impact of the Black Death. Now, admittedly, if this information is merely written down, it’s hard to understand how Carpentier’s work makes it possible for us to privilege Poland’s exceptionalism. After all, she and Ziegler go on to list other areas of Europe that also appear to have almost escaped its ravages. (In this context, it’s well worth adding, at this point, that the legend Carpentier adds below the map specifically draws attention to the apparent escape of Milan from the worst effects of the plague. That has also become an item of popular belief, and is very frequently the subject of questions posted online.)
We need to look at the map itself [above] to understand how it could have had such a dramatic impact. It illustrates the regions lightly touched by the Plague using shading – and simple geography dictates that the area left “untouched” in Poland is well over ten times the size of the next largest bit of shading, covering Béarn, in the northern reaches of the Pyrenees. Don’t believe me? How about this version of the same map, coloured this time, but taken originally from Angus Mackay’s Atlas of Medieval Europe? Or the spectacular gif offered by Wikipedia to show the spread of the outbreak? Looking at these, it would be hard not to conclude that something amazing happened in Poland in 1347-60, something requiring some remarkable explanation.
I think a glance at Carpentier’s map, by itself, is sufficient to let us see how the idea that Poland was somehow veryspecial came about – and when we couple that with mention of the effect (and publication of the map) in Ziegler’s book, which was and is by far the best-selling popular study of the Black Death in English, we can make a pretty educated guess as to how it wormed its way into our collective consciousness, and from there crossed over onto the internet. It must have helped that, as early as 1964, the same map was also republished in Scientific American.
While it was crossing over into the Anglophone world, however, the map was also attracting some criticism, by far the most interesting example of which is an article by David Mengel of Xavier University which appeared in Past & Present(pretty much as prestigious a history journal as there is, it seems hardly necessary to add) in 2011. Mengel’s focus is on the widely-accepted escape of the Kingdom Bohemia (a region very roughly equivalent to the modern Czech Republic) from the worst ravages of the plague, but what he says applies equally to the very similar situation with regard to Poland. His paper acknowledges the “influential role of popular history in shaping the questions and assumptions of scholars” and also discusses “the power of cartography to convey historical arguments.” He calls the influence of Carpentier’s map “astounding”.
Mengel’s criticisms are backed by those of a Czech historian, Frantisek Graus, who was the author of several highly detailed studies of Bohemia, which drew on sources – chronicles, sermons and letters – that had never previously been used in plague studies. Graus’s work showed that there was far less uniformity in the impact of the plague in Bohemia than Carpentier’s – very broad brush – map implied. More importantly, it concluded that while Bohemia had probably not suffered exceptionally severely from the initial outbreak of plague in 1349-50, the disease had returned in catastrophic style in 1380, visiting an exceptionally severe outbreak of plague on Prague and other major cities in the kingdom. In other words, Bohemia was not in some way uniquely resistant to the plague. It got (relatively) lucky once, but overall suffered at least as badly from the Black Death as did most other parts of Europe. In fact, Graus’s work is largely a call for the Black Death to be placed in a much broader context, as part of a wider pattern of epidemics. This, he stresses, is certainly how contemporaries saw it, though we can also read his work as a plea for the social crisis of the fourteenth century to be viewed in classical Marxist terms, and not as the product of the chance intervention of mere pathogens. For Graus, it was Bohemia’s proximity to (and not, as Ziegler mistakenly argued, distance from) Europe’s major trade routes that explained the impact of the epidemic in 1349-50 and 1380.
There are plenty examples of the sort of problems caused by basic acceptance of the idea that various areas of Europe “escaped” the plague – it’s invidious to pick out examples, really, but this is an important issue, so see for instance the Rutgers undergraduate paper referenced in the notes. It’s an example of what happens when you assume something to be true and then try grimly to explain it, without challenging yourself further on your initial assumption.
In summary, however, it’s very worth going back to Carpentier’s original essay, and consulting that alongside our study of the map. It’s at once clear that she is making no strident claims for the apparent exceptionalism of Poland (or indeed Milan), but rather presenting what is explicitly identified as a preliminary map. I think it’s certainly unhelpful that she felt able to suggest that there were areas in Europe that were left untouched by plague – something we simply do not have the sources to be sure of. But she goes on to state that more work would allow for the production of a better map which, she expects, will show much finer and more precise variations in mortality by city and by region.
So Carpentier’s map, in and of itself, is not really the culprit here. The real problem is that the map has not been republished with her textual caveats intact – indeed, in many cases it has been republished without any sort of source attribution, making it impossible even for interested and diligent students to go back to the original and realise how badly out of context her work has been taken. Among the culprits in this regard have been several very widely circulated books, such as Fred Hoyle and Chandra Wickramasinghe’s Diseases from Space (1979), which argues for an extraterrestrial origin for the plague.
There’s only one thing left to do at this point, and that’s to ask exactly what encouraged Carpentier to conclude that Poland experienced the Black Death differently to practically every other part of Europe. After all, however inadvertently, her paper, and her map, have caused a thousand lazy writers on the net – and some first-rate historians, as well – to think of Poland as some sort of shining beacon in the grim history of mid-fourteenth century Europe. What on earth prompted her to identify the kingdom as an area “partiellement ou totalement épargnées par la peste” – partially or totally spared by the plague? What evidence did she cite, and how much detail did she go into? Could it be we’re overlooking some crucial bit of evidence that she dug up half a century ago?
Well, the answer to that final question is a resounding “no”. Carpentier’s paper mentions Poland only once, and pretty much in passing. She asserts that the country was “only affected – weakly – in its northern part”, and urges further study, noting in passing that the one Polish chronicle account familiar to her deals solely with Torun, a small town on the Vistula, and is in any case quite useless, being copied word for word from a French source. The problem requires further study, she suggests. Worse still, her brief passage is not footnoted or sourced, making it impossible to tell – without engaging in a major act of historiographical archaeology – how she was able to conclude that only northern Poland was visited by the Black Death. The citations for the rest of the article are all to secondary sources, though – this is a survey article, not a paper based on any primary source research.
All in all, it’s staggering that this short, casually-composed passage – and the map that she drew based on it – has had so massive an impact on plague studies. And it is, to put it as politely as I can, more than a little bit unfortunate that it unleashed a myth that’s only getting ever more entrenched with every general survey of Polish history that’s published, and every bit of internet clickbait written about the Black Death.
This has necessarily been a long post, so a tl;dr seems sensible. I conclude:
• There is currently no detailed, accurate demographic data for Poland in the period up to and after the Black Death that would allow us to extrapolate the number of deaths caused by the plague in this region, even very approximately, with confidence. Data for prices and wages from one major Polish city suggest an impact similar to that experienced in western Europe.
• Poland was not sufficiently isolated from the rest of Europe for isolation to explain its apparent “escape” from plague. And it seems to be the case that it experienced a significant number of deaths, though – perhaps as a consequence of population densities – possibly fewer, in proportion, than more populous states did.
• However, the difficulty of assessing the impact of the Black Death in the kingdom is increased by its integration into the eastern European trading economy of the 14th century. The flow of people and cash eastwards from Germany was sufficiently significant to obscure and confuse any attempt to measure the impact of the plague in Poland, both economically and demographically.
• English-language studies draw on only a couple of contemporary chronicle accounts from the region, not enough to base any proper sort of study on – and these suggest that the impact of the Black Death in Poland was, if anything, at least as catastrophic as it was elsewhere in Europe. More detailed local records may be largely or wholly lacking; if they exist, they have not been the subject of studies that have had an impact in the English-speaking world.
• Nonetheless, no peer-reviewed books and papers written by academic historians, at least in western European languages, suppose there was anything extraordinary about the passage of the plague through Poland.
More modern studies generally suppose that the country escaped relatively lightly in 1347-51, though they acknowledge that it was not unaffected by the plague, nor was it necessarily invulnerable to later outbreaks of epidemic. Since I have not yet come across any such work that cites more detailed surveys of the impact of the Black Death in the region, it may well be that even the writers of these studies are basing their ideas about Poland an the plague on Carpentier and her work.
• Mention of the actions of Casimir the Great in blocking the borders of Poland, or of the idea that the reluctance of Poles to kill cats helped to retard the spread of disease there, exist only in popular books and on the internet; such suggestions only began to appear after 1995. They do appear not to have been made by specialists in Polish history, nor does there seem to be any evidence at all that they are true. It seems more likely they are post-hoc rationalisations, brainwaves dreamed up to explain Poland’s supposed escape from the ravages of the Black Death.
• The idea that areas of Europe (including Poland and Milan) “escaped” or almost escaped the impact of the epidemic can be traced to incautious reading and recopying of a map showing preliminary conclusions only regarding the spread of the disease first published by Carpentier in 1962, and widely republished in English-language popular works from 1969.
[General note: there is a large void in studies of medieval Poland. The literature is relatively abundant up to c.1250 and after the Union of Krewo in 1385, but I have struggled to find a single volume written in the past 50 years, in any language, devoted to the history of Poland after 1250 and before its union with Lithuania, much less a study of the impact of the Black Death there. Benedictow – who devotes a chapter to the question of “Did Some Countries or Regions Escape?” – acknowledges that the dearth of studies of Poland makes it difficult to draw conclusions about the impact of the epidemic there.]
Hollee Abbee, “Cats and the Black Plague,” Owlcation 4 February 2010, accessed 29 October 2017; Wilhelm Abel, Agrarkrisen und Agrarkonjunktur: Eine Geschichte der Land- und Ernährungswirtschaft Mitteleuropas seit dem hohen Mittelalter (1966); Perry Anderson, Lineages of the Absolutist State (1974); Ole J Benedictow, The Black Death, 1346–1353: The Complete History (2004); Henry Buckle, Miscellaneous and Posthumous Works (1872); Norman Cantor, The Black Death and the World It Made (2001); Élisabeth Carpentier, “Autour de la Peste Noire: Famines et épidémies dans la histoire du XIVe siècle,” Annales, XVII (1962); Alice Creviston, “Economic, social and geographical explanations of how Poland avoided the Black Death,” Rutgers undergraduate paper 2015; Norman Davies, God’s Playground: A History of Poland (1982); George Deaux, The Black Death, 1347 (1969); JM Doll et al, “Cat transmitted fatal pneumonic plague in a person who travelled from Colorado to Arizona.” American Journal of Tropical Medicine & Hygiene 51 (1994); Christopher Dyer, ‘Rural Europe.’ In The New Cambridge Medieval History: Volume 7, c.1415-c.1500 (1998); Robert Frost, The Oxford History of Poland-Lithuania I: The Making of the Polish-Lithuanian Union, 1385-1569 (2015); Alexsander Gieysztor, ‘The Kingdom of Poland and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, 1370-1506.’ In The New Cambridge Medieval History: Volume 7, c.1415-c.1500 (1998); Robert S. Gottfried, The Black Death: Natural and Human Disaster in Medieval Europe (1983); Frantisek Graus, “Autour de la peste noire au XIVe siècle en Bohème,” Annales ESC (1963); J. F. C. Hecker, Der Schwarze Tod im Vierzehnten Jahrhundert (1832); Fred Hoyle and Chandra Wickramasinghe, Diseases from Space (1979); AF Kaufmann et al, “Public health implications of plague in domestic cats.” Journal of the American Veterinary Medical Association 179 (1981); Alan Kors and Edward Peters, Witchcraft in Europe, 400-1700: A Documentary History (2001); Dionysius Lardner, The Cabinet Cyclopædia… History, Poland (1831); Jerzy Lukowski & Hubert Zawadzki, A Concise History of Poland (2005); David C. Mengel, “A plague on Bohemia?” Past & Present (2011); Julian Pelc, Ceny w Krakowie w latach 1369-1600 (1935); National Polish Committee of America, The Polish Encyclopædia (1921); Georg Sticker, Abhandlungen aus der Seuchengeschichte und Seuchenlehre I: Die Pest (1908-10); Joseph Strayer, Dictionary of the Middle Ages (1982); Helen Taylor [ed.], The Miscellaneous and Posthumous Works of Henry Thomas Buckle (1872); Bruce Weiniger et al, “Human bubonic plague transmitted by a domestic cat scratch,” Journal of the American Medical Association 1984; Adam Zamoyski, Poland: A History (2009); Philip Ziegler, The Black Death (1969)
UPDATE [December 2017]
When I first wrote on the Black Death in Poland [October 2017], I pointed out that it was hard to trace the assertions made in Élisabeth Carpentier’s influential paper to their source(s), since the brief passage she devotes to Poland “is not footnoted or sourced, making it impossible to tell – without engaging in a major act of historiographical archaeology – how she was able to conclude that only northern Poland was visited by the Black Death.”
Given the positive reception of this post, and the significance of the problem itself, I’ve found myself unable to leave it at that. Instead, I devoted some additional time over the Christmas holiday to attempting to understand the question in more depth. I now think that I’ve identified the source that Carpentier used, and I’ve also got hold of a copy of Knoll’s book on Piast Poland from 1320-1370. As a result of these investigations, I can add the following comments to my preliminary conclusions:
 The source that Carpentier used for Poland in her Annales paper appears to be f’s Der Schwarze Tod in Deutschland: Ein Beitrag sur Geschichte des Vierzehnten Jahrhunderts (Berlin, 1882), or perhaps some other later work based on it. Carpentier does not list Hoeniger’s book in her footnotes, but it is by far the best researched earlier account of the plague in Germany and Eastern Europe; its discussion of the evidence of contemporary chronicles matches hers; and the book is frequently referenced in other older academic histories of the Black Death.
Hoeniger discusses Poland twice (pp.10-11 and 31-38) and argues that the plague did not visit East Franconia, Bohemia, Silesia and Poland in 1348, though he concedes there was a significant outbreak of the disease in eastern Europe in 1360. The evidences he advances is based not on accounts from Poland in the period 1347-51, however, but on the lack of such accounts. To go through the points made in Der Schwarze Tod one by one, Hoeniger argues:
• That an account by the Italian chronicler Matteo Villani (1283-1363), which notes that plague “raged in the part of Poland which bordered on the German reich” and that this epidemic coincided with an immigration of persecuted Jews into Poland, should be dated to 1360 and not to 1348, as has sometimes been supposed.
• That the itinerary of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV shows he stayed in the eastern parts of his dominions between 1349 and 1351, suggesting these provinces were a refuge from the ravages of the Black Death further to the west.
• That the archives of Breslau (now Wroclaw), in Silesia – which had been Polish until 1335 but was in 1348 on the Bohemian side of the Polish-Bohemian border – fail to reveal “any trace of the the ravages of an epidemic.” These archives included correspondence from Charles IV “in which every important event is scrupulously recorded,” but which make no mention of plague, and city accounts that “show no fluctuation that would suggest the impact of the plague on local economic activity until 1358.” I now believe that this passage is the ultimate source for Norman Davies’s suggestion (noted above) that Poland’s “economic life was not disrupted”, even though it actually describes the position in a town that was not then part of Poland.
• That notes in two other contemporary chronicles which have been interpreted as evidence for the appearance of the Black Death in the region in the 1340s are “so vague that they cannot be dated with any certainty.”
• That Stenzel [who was secretary to the Historical and Geographical Section of the Silesian Patriotic Society during the 1830s and who edited Scriptores rerum Silesiacarum, a set of four Polish and Silesian chronicles, for the society] finds no mention of plague in Silesia in the 1340s, “an argumentum ex silentio… which I gladly use for my argument.”
• That evidence for an epidemic of the Black Death that killed a third of the population of Poland given in Długosz’s Historia Poloniae (a significantly later work, as we have seen above) “is certainly of dubious value.” Hoeniger argues that Długosz had no evidence of any visitation of plague, and merely assumed, from his knowledge of the epidemic in southern Europe, that it proved equally virulent to the east. Hoeniger concludes that “the Polish historian has found a gaping gulf in his native tradition, and has arbitrarily supplemented it with foreign reports from other countries.” [Carpentier concurs with this assessment.]
• That two charters of Charles IV (1350 and 1352), dealing with commerce between the towns of Bohemia and Poland and ordering the expulsion of Polish merchants from imperial towns, “would have been superfluous in the event of the rule of the plague in the area”. In other words, Hoeniger is suggesting that the Black Death was so severe that it caused the almost total cessation of ordinary economic activity in Europe in the 1340s and early 1350s.
Hoeniger’s suggestion that the plague essentially spared Bohemia and Poland in 1347-51 is thus based on a fairly impressive array of documentation – chronicles, charter evidence, and royal correspondence – but one that is, collectively, identifiably nineteenth century in character. By this I mean that the author makes no real use of economic evidence; nor does he commit to the sort of painstaking, comparative, line-by-line examination of manorial records and ecclesiastical appointments that underpin much modern research aimed at establishing the demographic impact of the Black Death, and makes broad assumptions – not least the idea that the Black Death caused an almost complete halt in trade and commerce – that modern histories of the period do not support. So, while we can agree with Hoeniger’s criticism of the way in which Villani’s passage has been interpreted, and concede that his arguments concerning the charters of Charles IV deserve consideration, this does not mean that his history is the last word on the impact of the plague in Poland, much less that it is not in need of significant revision in the light of later findings.
Two points are well worth making here. One is that, as the old saw has it, “absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.” The sources Hoeniger quotes may well suggest that the initial outbreak of the Black Death was probably neither as severe nor as widespread in its passage through Poland as it was in France or Italy or England – but it’s scarcely possible to say, at this remove, that the plague did not visit Poland at all during this period. We would do well to remember that the almost complete absence of detailed contemporary records from Eastern Europe, certainly relative to those available for the major nations of the west, may conceal all manner of horrors.
In this respect, secondly, let’s also remember that Hoeniger’s verdict that the Black Death had minimal impact on Poland also extended to the visitation of the disease over the border in Bohemia – a judgement that Graus’s paper “Autour de la peste noire au XIVe siècle en Bohème” and Mengel’s “A Plague on Bohemia?” go a long way to undermine.
All of this suggests to me that detailed investigation of surviving evidence, using the latest historical techniques, would probably reveal that plague did make significant inroads into Poland in the 1340s. Certainly there seems to be no obvious reason to suppose that the situation in Casimir’s territories was significantly different to that in Charles IV’s Bohemia; the two territories were neighbours, trading partners and, quite frequently, enemies throughout this period. As such, the uncovering of Hoeniger as Carpentier’s ur source for the history of the plague in Poland does almost nothing to revise the verdicts I offered when I first tackled the subject two months ago.
 It’s also well worth noting that Hoeniger’s book also appears be the source of the suggestion that Casimir instituted a quarantine of Poland while the Black Death raged, a modern interpretation that I was not able to track down to its source when I first wrote. (I now note that the idea that a strict quarantine saved Poland was also accepted by Barbara Tuchman in her widely read pop history A Distant Mirror – also without formal attribution to a source, though she had definitely read Hecker. Given the considerable popularity of Tuchman’s work, this may well be how the quarantine story originally crossed over onto the net.)
If that is the case, however, Hoeniger’s conclusions seem questionable. Translated, the relevant passage in Der Schwarze Tod reads as follows [pp.37-8].
A certificate dated 30 March 1349, (Monum medii aevi res gestas Poloniae, III, p. 270), in which the King of the Poles abolishes [aufhebt] the customs barriers [Verkehrssperre] at Zmigrod [in Lower Silesia] with Hungary for his merchants and travellers, shows our extremely uncertain knowledge of the situation. We see from this that border barriers [Grenzsperre] were set up not only to the west, but also in the south of Poland. I thus suggest a similar interruption of traffic with the Baltic Sea areas; it is otherwise inexplicable that the infection was not brought to the open plains of Danzig [Gdansk], where there were numerous trade links with Poland. Only an energetic quarantine could afford the same protection as natural barriers for the remaining unpolluted areas, for they were not arbitrarily divided from their infected neighbours.
And Hoeniger adds, in a footnote:
The fact that ten years later, at a time when the plague was reappearing and threatening Austria, Hungary and Poland, these severe measures were imitated in Vienna clearly identifies its character as a quarantining measure. [“sanitätspolizeiliche Massnahme“, literally “sanitary police measure”].
It’s worth tracing Hoeniger’s thinking here. He starts from the position that a customs barrier was known to exist between Germany territories and Poland, then assumes that a decree abolishing a similar barrier at one town on the border with Hungary indicates the existence of customs points across the whole of the southern Polish border. From there, he uses the assumption (which, as we have seen, is essentially unevidenced) that the plague did not appear in the central plains south of Gdansk to suggest there must also have been effective customs barriers in place along the northern borders of the kingdom. Evidence that this “quarantine” was not only complete but also “energetic” likewise comes not from any specific evidence, but from the assumption that its effectiveness is proven by the apparent inability of the plague to penetrate Polish territory.
It seems clear, therefore, that there is practically no evidence that there were even customs barriers around the Polish kingdom in the late 1340s, and none whatsoever – other than “absence of evidence” – that such barriers were effective in imposing an actual “quarantine” on Casimir’s territories. In addition, the only evidence that Hoeniger cites to show that such barriers existed anywhere other than to the west is an edict abolishing a customs post at Zmigrod in March 1349, at a time when the Black Death was advancing rapidly across other areas of Europe. Hoeniger does not comment on this, but it seems utterly impossible to square his faith in the effectiveness of the Polish customs “quarantine” with the idea that Casimir would abolish a key border post at the very point when it would be most needed to protect the country.
I conclude that the idea that Casimir the Great saved his kingdom by instituting a strict “border quarantine” around Poland in the 1340s stems from a single edict actually abolishing one customs post on the border with Hungary beforethe Black Death appeared in the region, and hence that whatever steps the Polish king was taking in reordering his customs posts in the spring of 1349, they likely had nothing to do with any attempt to keep the Black Death out of Poland.
 As an addendum, I can also report that Knoll’s The Rise of the Polish Monarchy, while covering precisely the right period, is disappointingly completely devoid of any coverage of Polish demographic or economic history and also makes no mention at all of the country’s medical history.
 In my opinion, a fair summary of the state of play with regard to our understanding of the visitation of the Black Death in Poland in the period 1347-51 would be that
[a] There is insufficient evidence to be certain as to how badly the country was affected by the plague during these years. There is certainly no evidence that Poland was as badly affected by the epidemic as were the nations of western Europe, and some suggestion (mainly in the form of negative evidence from the archives of Breslau) that some parts of Polish and former Polish territory were less severely hit.
[b] Nonetheless, there is also no reason to suppose that the kingdom was entirely spared during the first wave of plague. The severe impact of the Black Death immediately to the west and east of Polish territory during these years is a matter of record, and while we simply lack evidence to assess the situation to the north and south, there is every reason to suppose that the disease would have been able to cross Poland’s borders, and almost none – given its incredible virulence and rapid spread during its first sweep across Europe – that it would not have done so.
[c] Evidence from elsewhere in Europe – and from modern studies of Poland itself – suggests that Hoeniger overstates his case in arguing for Polish exceptionalism, especially in imagining that the Black Death would have caused an almost complete cessation of trade in the region, and that surviving records of Polish trade in the late 1340s and early 1350s suggest that the country was spared the plague. Certainly it would be dangerous, without significant additional research, to argue that Poland escaped because it was less heavily populated than western Europe or because less trade flowed through the country.
[d] Contemporary historians of Poland tend to assume the apparently relatively limited impact of the Black Death there in the period 1347-51 was a product of low population density. This could be true. Nonetheless, I believe this verdict is a product of post-hoc rationalisation, and should be challenged for three reasons.
First, we don’t have proper studies of the population of Poland before, during or after the ravages of the Black Death. This means that any suggestion that Poland was “sparsely populated” in the middle of the 14th century is little better than a product of assumptions and guesswork; moreover, the kingdom was not entirely rural and certainly did possess several quite substantial towns and active trade routes, so talk of “low population density” needs to be qualified in any case.
Second, there is conflicting evidence from elsewhere in Europe regarding the impact of population density on the spread of the epidemic. Benedictow accepts that the lack of any evidence that the Black Death struck Finland in these years probably does suggest that population density was a factor there. But the plague nonetheless did have a major impact on other sparsely-populated areas of Europe, such as Norway and Sweden. This means that we certainly can’t say with any confidence that Poland was more sparsely populated than other mainly rural territories that clearly were devastated by the epidemic, and hence it would be unsafe to conclude that relative population density is a sure indicator of the likelihood that the epidemic would devastate a given area.
Third, evidence from Breslau/Wroclaw shows that population density cannot be the sole determining factor controlling whether or not the Black Death struck a region. Other factors, such as local conditions, and simply luck, along the routes along which the disease was transmitted, must have also been very significant.
[e] Much of the evidence for all this that does exist has been discussed only in older works, which lack the methodological and historiographical sophistication of more recent studies. This evidence is largely drawn from chronicles and contemporary correspondence; there is a real need for it to be reassessed and expanded on by scholars trained in demography and comfortable with handling medieval sources written in Latin and German, and secondary studies written in Polish and German.
[f] Whatever we make of the situation in 1347-51, Poland was not in some way “immune” to the plague; the country indisputably suffered a significant epidemic in 1360, during the second visitation of the Black Death in Europe, and there is reason to suggest that, overall, it suffered about as badly from plague as most other areas in Europe during the 14th century. This, in itself, is sufficient to render much of the special pleading that appears in non-scholarly sources in an attempt to explain supposed “Polish exceptionalism” pointless and misleading.
[g] Finally, there is no evidence whatsoever that the reasons commonly given online for the inability of the plague to penetrate Polish territory – the quarantining efforts of Casimir the Great and the existence of larger numbers of cats in Poland than elsewhere – have any basis in truth.
Robert Hoeniger, Der Schwarze Tod in Deutschland: Ein Beitrag sur Geschichte des Vierzehnten Jahrhunderts (1882)
Barbara Tuchman, A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous 14th Century (1978)
Paul W. Knoll, The Rise of the Polish Monarchy: Piast Poland in East Central Europe, 1320-1370 (1972)
Q: What is the truth about “getting shanghaied”?
A: There’s no doubt that San Francisco earned its reputation as a place where unwary or unlucky sailors risked being pressed into service on board ships departing for long voyages across the Pacific. Forced labour of this sort was relatively commonplace in the years roughly from the 1840s until about 1915; certainly there must have been many thousands of cases in this period, and an entire group of procurers, known as “crimps,” sprang up on the Barbary Coast to supply this need.
There were a couple of reasons why shanghaiing was a relatively common practice and why it was specifically associated with San Francisco. Merchant seamen were itinerants in this period. Rather than serving as part of one ship’s crew for relatively lengthy periods that covered several different voyages and deployments, as was the case in the navy, they signed up for only single voyages and had the option of leaving a ship at the end of that voyage if they were not happy with the master, the conditions, the pay, or indeed the next planned port of call. They might also choose to leave a ship out of the necessity of requiring paid employment, since they were paid only while they were actually at sea; a ship that stayed in port for a few weeks or months, awaiting her next cargo, was costing these men money. Thus, while a competent ships’ captain would do everything in his power to retain a core of trusted, skilled men around him, he would also typically lose some members of his crew, and hence need to recruit ordinary seamen every time he was in port. In the 19th century, these men were supplied via a largely informal system focused on boarding houses along the waterfront. Sailors looking for work could find it by applying to the well-connected men and women who ran the major seamen’s flophouses; masters looking to top up their crews passed out their requirements lists to the boarding house keepers known to supply men, who not infrequently had a reputation for providing these bodies by less than above-board means. A bad master, or a poor or unsafe ship, would always struggle to attract sufficient men, and it was in cases such as these that the crimps turned to illegal methods of forcing unwilling recruits on board.
The problem was particularly associated with San Francisco both because it was the main US Pacific port, and so a starting point for many very long trans-oceanic voyages of the sort no man would want to undertake on a “hell-ship,” and because at the very start of the period, in 1849, the California gold rush created such an hysteria that it was common for seamen to desert their ships in large numbers in order to join the rush to the goldfields, creating a major manning problem for the ships arriving at the port that could only be solved by kidnapping unwilling crewmen from the bars and flophouses along what became known, for its lawlessness, as the “Barbary Coast.”
Getting the hapless men who became victims of “shanghaiing” (a phrase that dates to 1872) onto ships was one of the riskiest parts of the job, and a considerable folklore has sprung up around it. This lore incorporates not only trick chairs positioned over trap doors (an idea that can be traced back at least as far as the legend of Sweeney Todd, the “demon barber of Fleet Street”, which in turn has its origins in the Paris of the early 17th century), but also secret tunnels running down to the shore. And certainly rendering these men insensible, through drink or drugs, was a technique occasionally used by crimps such as the infamous ‘Scar-Face’ Johnson, Michael Connor – a terror of the 1880s – Paddy West and ‘The Shanghai Chicken,’ John Devine, the last of whom went to the gallows for murder in 1873.
Hiram P. Bailey – who quite literally wrote the book (albeit a semi-fictional one) on being shanghaied out of ‘Frisco in the ’90s, spoke of being slipped mickey finns in a seafront bar and waking up on board a hell-ship that he calls the *Washington*, notorious for her vicious master, which was “putting to sea with two clergymen, three bar-tenders, four agricultural labourers – all shanghaied – among a more or less nautical crew of thirty men.” Davidson describes the “standard concoction” served by crimps to men they planned to shanghai as a mix of “whiskey, brandy, gin, and opium,” capable of knocking a man out for days; this was the “Miss Piggott Special,” so named after a Barbary Coast landlady rumoured to serve the drink to unwary custmers. A notice in the *California Police Gazette,* similarly, warned of “strychnine whiskey,” served in San Francisco in South of Market bars, which had an almost identical effect.
Shanghaiing occurred worldwide, of course – not just in San Francisco. A typical case from Rio de Janeiro involved a Swedish sailor, Gustav Johnson, who had gone ashore from his ship to purchase medicine:
As he was leaving the chandler’s shop he was set upon by four negroes, directed by a short, thick-set white man. They “knocked him down and bound him, carried him to a wharf, threw him into a small boat [and] rowed him” back to their barque, the Canvas-Down. On the Filipino island of Cebu, Johnson tried to go ashore, but his captain prevented him from doing so. He protested. The captain took him to the British consulate and had him locked up until departure, then audaciously deducted this cost from Johnson’s pay. The Swede secured his release in New York and used that city’s courts to successfully sue the captain for $150 in damages.
We get some clues here as to the interconnectedness of the elements of the shanghai trade, which required collaboration between masters, crimps, and often the authorities. An especially blatant example of the latter comes from the Great Lakes, where in the 1880s much of the Chicago trade was in the hands of a shipping agent called “Big Jack” McQuade, whose position was immeasurably strengthened by his connections to the city’s infamously corrupt municipal government:
>A few days before Christmas 1888… when the 1,000 ton schooner C.C. Barnes broke free of her icy imprisonment in the Chicago River with the help of a tug, she needed extra hands before getting underway to Buffalo with a cargo of 38,000 bushels of grain. McQuade headed to the Sans Souci Bar and told its owner, Olaf the Swede, to give him six men. Olaf protested that he could not find mariners right before Christmas. McQuade threatened to arrange for the rescinding of the saloon’s license. That night, Olaf rolled up with a wagon carrying six unconscious men.
This said, there is absolutely no credible evidence for the use of trapdoors to secure victims, either in San Francisco or anywhere else; ditto for secret tunnels, in San Francisco at least (there is some evidence they were used in Portland). Bill Pickelhaupt, author of one of the key studies of crimping and shanghaiing, studied oral and written accounts for years without coming upon a verifiable case, and there are a couple of good reasons why this should be so: first, the practice would have risked injury to a man who needed to be able-bodied to be of much use to his new employer, and, second, the law required sailors to sign ship’s articles, something there was no guarantee a man who had been kidnapped or forced aboard would do. It was far easier to target men who, while they might not want to undertake the voyage, grudgingly accepted they had little alternative but to do so.
Mark Strecker comments that while crimps
>used drink, drugs, coercion, and trickery to shanghai men, most preferred to employ financial blackmail. It worked like this: seamen chronically lacked money, so a crimp extended them far more credit than they could possibly repay. The crimp then offered those indebted to him the choices of debtors’ prison – something many American states and territories had – or taking a berth on a ship of the crimp’s choosing. Most did the latter. The crimp took what they owed him from their advance… The loss of this portion of earnings caused the affected to have short wages at the voyage’s end. To make up the difference, they had to get credit from another boardinghouse master, starting the process over.
It would be remiss of me not to mention that there is some evidence that crimps *did* make use of trapdoors at one key point in the shanghaiing process – Davidson mentions “dead-falls” in wharf-front warehouses, “through which shanghaied sailors were shoved into rowboats waiting below.” But Strecker’s book also gives us an interesting example of the consequences of employing the sort of coercive methods you are interested in:
>One Sunday night a seaman named Patrick Grant went carousing along [the Shanghai] waterfront. The next morning he awoke on a strange ship as the newest member of her crew. Feeling ill beyond the effects of a hangover, he informed the second mate he could not work because he had a nasty fever. During the four days [the voyage] lasted he received not a morsel of food. Somehow, his plight caught the attention of Mr Brown, a British vice-consul, who charged Grant’s master, Captain Murphy, with illegally bringing a man on board without first having him sign the ship’s articles, a violation of the Merchant Shipping Act of 1854. For his defense, Murphy produced articles with Grant’s signature, saying he had put it there himself as Grant could not write. Grant proved his literacy and went free. The judge fined the captain a mere £10 for his violation as he felt Murphy had meant no harm.
Shanghaiing continued to flourish until the very early 20th century, in part because, as Davidson points out, “as members of a migratory class unable to vote for protective legislation, sailors formed a classic lost community in a democracy.” It took organisation and unionisation to force the legislative changes that outlawed crimping and made shanghaiing a thing of the past. The Dingley Act (1884), a Federal law that prohibited payment of advance wages by masters to crimps, was one significant blow to the shanghaiing system, as was the formation of the Seaman’s Union in 1885 and the agitation that led to the Maguire Act (1885) and the outlawing of the crimps’ other major stand-by, the attachment of sailors’ clothing. This was followed by the White Act (1898), which limited the amount a sailor could be required to pay to any “original creditor”.
Between them, these three acts – and the end of the sailing ship era, which had required a large number of semi-skilled crewmen used largely as muscle – pretty much finished off the crimps of San Francisco – but that does not mean that sailors did not continue to risk shanghaiing elsewhere in the world for many years to come.
Hiram P. Bailey, Shanghaied Out of ‘Frisco in the Nineties(1925)
Lance S. Davidson, “Shanghaied: the systematic kidnapping of sailors in early San Francisco.” California History 64 (1985)
Bill Pickelhaupt, Shanghaied in San Francisco: Politics and Personalities (1996)
Mark Strecker, Shanghaiing Sailors: A Maritime History of Forced Labor, 1849 to 1915 (2014)
Q: During the New York Draft Riots (1863), supposedly the New York Times defended their office from the mob with 2 Gatling guns. Where did they obtain these guns and ammunition and how did they turn away the mob?
Did the Times staff kill members of the mob? I’ve attempted to find more information about this incident but have been unable to. The NYT makes the claim itself on this site.
A: The most authoritative version of this story – which itself is based on no more than late recollection and “tradition” – suggests that none of the guns were fired. The Gatling was a complicated bit of machinery even though it was designed to be used with minimal training, and it would have been hard for ordinary members of the paper’s staff to use it effectively in any case.
From the History of the New York Times by Elmer Davis (1921):
Warned by the misfortune of The Tribune, which had actually been attacked by rioters and saved only by the opportune arrival of a detachment of the overworked police, The Times fortified itself.
The Gatling gun had lately been invented and offered to the War Department, though it was not used either widely or successfully in the war. Two specimens of the gun had been obtained by The Times, according to tradition through the President’s friendship for [Henry J.] Raymond [one of the partners who owned the paper], and were mounted just inside the business office under the command of Leonard W. Jerome. If the mob had not been more interested in attacking those who were unable to defend themselves, it would have found some trouble waiting for it at the Times office, for the entire staff had been armed with rifles; and there was a third Gatling gun on the roof mounted so that it could sweep the streets in any direction. It is only a malicious invention of jealous rivals that this gun was kept trained on the window of Horace Greeley’s office in the near-by Tribune Building.
The question of where these weapons may have come from, if they ever existed, is an interesting one. The Gatling gun had not been accepted or purchased by the US Army at this time. So – while I have read numerous histories of New York and of the riots which state unequivocally that the guns were obtained from the army, one writer even specifying that they were “appropriated from one of New York’s armouries” – it would seem that the only way the Times could have obtained them, with or without the assistance of Abraham Lincoln, is if it got them from the Gatling company itself.
This is more than a little problematic, since Gatling was based in Indianapolis, with manufacturing located in Cincinnati. At the time that the Draft Riots took place in the summer of 1863, it would appear there may have been as few as 12 actual Gatling guns in existence and there had only been one formal trial of the weapon; another took place in Washington Naval Yard that summer. Certainly they were not available, and had not been sold, in any quantity.
Of course it’s possible that the manufacturer had a few examples in a sales room somewhere in New York, but I’ve never read any such claim, and it’s not clear why it would have done so. Although individual army officers did purchase samples of the gun for their own use later in the war, the sole customer for the gun at this point in time was the Army; by the summer of 1863, Major General Horatio C. Wright, commander of the Department of Ohio, was the sole officer to have taken an active interest in the weapon, and he had gone to Cincinnati to witness trials. The first sales to foreign powers did not occur till 1867, when Russia bought the weapon.
The rioting lasted for four days, but the current New York Times site you link to suggests the mob threatened its building on the first day, 13 July. That would rule out any attempt to source guns from any distance. Even if that account is wrong, is it really plausible that the NYT not only anticipated the unprecedented duration of the rioting, but also telegraphed to Ohio for help and received a rail shipment while the disorder was actually in progress? And then there’s the multiplying number of guns involved; Davis’s account raises the number from two to three, without explanation, in the space of a few lines.
As for the idea that the guns were provided courtesy of Lincoln’s personal intervention, this seems highly implausible; we know that Lincoln had tried to press another early machine gun, the Ager “coffee mill”, onto his generals in 1861, but when Gatling approached the President direct in an attempt to sell his invention in 1864, he was ignored – which does not suggest that Lincoln was either familiar with Gatling’s gun, or much of an enthusiast for it, one year after the Draft Riots occurred.
For these reasons – and since, despite the numerous anecdotal accounts of the story that have appeared in print since 1921, I have not been able to locate any contemporary or even near-contemporary source for the story – I have significant doubts as to whether the incident ever actually occurred.
For exactly how far Gatling had got in selling his gun by July 1863:
David Armstrong, Bullets and Bureaucrats: The Machine Gun and the United States Army, 1861-1916 (1982)
For accounts of the NYT’s Gatling guns:
Ric Burns et al, New York: An Illustrated History (2001); Elmer Davis, History of the New York Times (1921); James M. McPherson, The Illustrated Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era (2003); John Strasbaugh, City of Sedition: The History of New York City During the Civil War (2016)
For a – very slightly – more sceptical account:
Paul Wahl & Donald Topol, The Gatling Gun (1965)
For the book that explicitly claims the guns were “appropriated from one of New York’s armouries”:
Clint Johnson, A Vast and Fiendish Plot: The Confederate Attack on New York City (2010)
Q: Is it true that Henry VIII feared being attacked so much he had himself bricked into his bedroom every night?
I just heard on Horrible Histories that towards the end of Henry VIII’s life, he would be bricked into his bedroom every night then broken out the following morning. I’ve never heard this before and it sounds really implausible…
A: There is certainly no truth to the story, which is not mentioned by any of Henry’s major biographers. Furthermore, even had such an action been suggested or required, for some unfathomable reason, the actual process would have been impracticable in the sixteenth century, well before the introduction of quick-drying mortar and cement.
The story beaome “live” again in September 2017, presumably owing to the transmission of an episode from series 7 of the show entitled “Ruthless Rulers”, the programme notes for which read:
Get ready for some serious bad behaviour, as Horrible Histories brings you the most ruthless rulers of all time. Henry VIII is so demanding he has a brick wall built at his bedroom door every night, those vicious Vikings find that sorry seems to be the hardest word, hold your nose in Versailles because Louis XIV hasn’t got any loos, and rock out with the Warlords from Hell – take it away Genghis and Vlad.
This in turn has prompted others to question the rumour. As a result, there was an interesting exchange on Twitter between a couple of sceptics and Greg Jenner, who teaches an MA seminar in public history at York, is an historical consultant to the “Horrible Histories” TV show – and, somewhat incredibly, claims to be “both a passionate defender and careful critic of the way in which the past is exploited by our society for entertainment.”
While Twitter is not normally a good source, it’s worth giving the exchange here as it does illuminate the sort of standards a children’s TV history show produced for the BBC feels it needs to stick to these days – the short answer being that the standards are quite unbelievably low.
The question was first posed on History Stack Exchange:
I was just watching some TV with my kids, and we were enjoying the (normally reliable) Horrible Histories TV show.
It claimed that Henry VIII had a long series of bedtime preparations to ensure his nightly slumber was safe. Fair enough. The final step, though, was to brick up his doorway each and every night, taking the wall down in the morning.
This seems pretty crazy. If Henry could get out in the morning, intruders would surely have been able to get in fairly easily. If the wall was mortared, it would take too long to dry. Not to mention the level of skill involved by artisans to do the brickwork.
So I searched on it and found nothing except a bunch of other amateur historians also ridiculing the idea.
I posted about this on social media and, to my surprise, the historical adviser to the series replied to say he’d heard the story from the owners of Allington Castle. That seems a bit of a flimsy basis to me. And even with the extra information I couldn’t track down any evidence.
Is there any truth to this story? Is it as unlikely as it sounds?
One for Greg Jenner I think.
And Jenner responded:
Haha thanks, it’s one of those half dubious stories which circulate and we thought it would be fun to run with it.
A Twitter user called Matt Thrower then asked:
Sorry it’s me again, wondering if I can find any evidence 🙂
To which Jenner replied:
Feel free to ask around, we are well aware many facts are possibly myths but until they are disproved they remain usable on a comedy show.
these stories come from somewhere, but where… and why
I suppose a TV show is free to set its own rules in this regard, and though I find it regrettable that such a popular series plays so fast and loose with the facts, I can at least see some spin off benefit in the form of more kids finding history more fascinating.
But I find it unfortunate, in fact unforgivable, that anyone who calls himself an historian could take such a cavalier approach to evidence and sources. After all, if HH requires that someone “disprove the myth” in order that some check be placed on its content, that’s something its “historical consultant” ought to be responsible for, and could quite easily have done. Clearly he didn’t feel it necessary to try.
In this context, it’s worth mentioning that a response to the initial query was posted on History Stack Exchange, where a user called Patricia Shanahan observed:
In this case, I think the absence of evidence does very, very strongly suggest it didn’t happen. For example, the Eltham Ordinance lists many types of royal household workers and their duties, but never mentions the Privy Chamber Bricklayer, who would have had to be close to the King twice a day. It discusses the handling of left over torches and wax, but not the handling of the bricks for the King’s chamber. It specifies when the pages and squires have to get up in order to be ready to attend the King at eight in the morning, without saying what time the bricklayer should dismantle the wall.
It strikes me that this is a useful way of approaching the problem, although hardly a definitive one – the Eltham Ordinance dates to 1526, which is more than two decades before Henry’s death.
This still leaves unresolved the question of where the original rumour originated. We have Jenner’s claim that he heard it from “the owners of Allington Castle”, which is privately owned, in Kent, and does have associations with Henry VIII. This is quite plausible, as the castle website reveals that several series of Horrible Histories have shot at this location. The current owners are Sir Robert Worcester, the founder of the MORI polling organisation, and his wife. Other than that, the earliest account I have been able to trace dates to November 2013, when the question was debated on the forum of a website called The Anne Boleyn Files. The original questioner sourced it as follows – adding an alternate supposed reason for the practice:
It cropped up during a conversation I had with a friend some time ago. She said to me…
“Did you know that Henry (towards the end of his life) used to be bricked up inside his lodgings every night, and the bricks taken down every morning, due to his fear of getting sick”
I know he had a fear of getting poorly… but did he take it this far!?
That’s pretty vague. But perhaps further investigation will reveal if the rumour can be traced further back than that.
One closing comment: I think there’s really no excuse for HH not to make an effort to look into stories it knows are dubious.
I can only imagine they don’t because they don’t want to rule out stuff they think would make good TV. But however entertaining, this is also the stuff that sticks, and it has an impact on perceptions more generally.
In this case, if kids are being told Henry was frightened of being killed in his bed, that affects how they will think about him as a ruler, and think about how dangerous it was to be a king in Tudor England – all in ways that won’t be helpful if they come to study the period at A level or at university. So it’s not just a harmless bit of fun.
Q: When Ferdinand Magellan circumnavigated the Earth, he came across supposed “Giants of Patagonia”. Who were these giants and why were they so tall?
A: Reports of a race of giants who inhabited the southernmost reaches of South America date back to the very earliest European visitors to the continent. The place-name “Patagonia” itself probably derives from the Portuguese “Patagão” – translating to “big feet” – and expeditions that reached the area between Magellan’s voyage in 1520 and 1764 sporadically claimed to have encountered groups of men of abnormally gigantic stature. Far from every visitor to Patagonia reported such meetings, however, and the idea gradually developed that it was only the members of one particular tribe, the Tehuelche, who attained such remarkable heights. This latter theory remained popular into the 19th century, and Rupert Gould, author of the first detailed investigation into the rumours, divides reports into three periods: “roughly, into a century of credulity, a century of incredulity, and a century during which it became apparent that the story of the Patagonian giants had a real, if slender, basis of truth.”
To begin the tale at the beginning, the first recorded mention of Patagonian giants dates to June 1520 and the arrival of Magellan’s expedition off the coast of South America, making landfall on the east coast at the spot now occupied by Puerto St Julián. There, according to an account written by Antonio Pigafetta, a Venetian scholar who had joined the voyage, they saw a gigantic native standing on the beach.
“This man,” Pigafetta wrote, “was so tall that our heads scarcely came up to his waist, and his voice was like that of a bull… The least is taller than the tallest man in Castile.” The Spaniards landed and were able to approach the man, who proved friendly; soon other members of his tribe joined them on the beach. According to Antonio de Herrera y Tordesillas, the 16th century Spanish historian (who was not present on the voyage, but collated accounts of it later), the smallest of these men was taller and bulkier than the largest of Magellan’s men.
The second voyager to report an encounter with Patagonia’s giants was Sir Francis Drake, who visited the same area in June 1578. Things went badly for the English, who lost two men in a skirmish with the natives. They reported that the giants stood a little under 7 feet 6 inches (2.29m) in height. Anthony Knyvet, who called in April 1592, claimed to have enountered Patagonians who stood 14 to 16 spans (10½ to 12 feet) and have actually measured the corpses of several who proved to be of equal stature. Two Dutch explorers, Sebald de Weert and Joris Spilbergen, who separately visited Patagonia in 1615, likewise claimed to have seen the giants: De Weert placed their height at 10-11 feet, while Spilbergen said he had seen two men, one of normal height and the other two and a half feet taller, which would place the latter at around the same height claimed by Pigafetta and Herrera. The second edition of the Journal of the Voyage of Wilhelm Schouten (Amsterdam, 1619) mentions the discovery of skeletons 10 or 11 feet long at Puerto Deseado (Port Desire) , but this claim does not appear in the earliest account of Schouten’s voyage. Captains Harrington and Carmen, who commanded a pair of French ships on the South American coast, repeatedly saw giants at Possession Bay, in the Straits of Magellan, and in 1712 the Spanish authorities in southern Chile informed the Frenchman Amadee Frezier that a tribe of natives averaging 9 to 10 feet in height lived in the Paragonian interior.
Finally, Commodore “Foulweather Jack” Byron (grandfather of the poet), who sailed the Straits of Magellan in 1764, met a native chief whom he described as a “frightful colossus” nearly seven feet tall, and – what was even more impressive – broad and muscular in proportion to his height. Midshipman Charles Clerke, who accompanied Byron and later sailed on three of Captain Cook’s voyages, wrote a separate account suggesting that
some of them are certainly nine feet, if they do not exceed it, The commodore, who is very near six feet, could but just reach the top of one of their heads, which he attempted, on tip-toe…. There was hardly a man there less than eight feet, most of them considerably more; the women, I believe, run from 7½ to 8.
A somewhat less dramatic claim was made by an American whaler (and tall-tale-teller), Benjamin Bourne, who was in Patagonia in 1849. He observed:
In person they are large; on first sight they appear absolutely gigantic. They are taller than any other race I have seen, though it is impossible to give any accurate description. The only standard of measurement I had was my own height. Which is about five feet ten inches. I could stand very easily under the arms of many of them, and all the men were at least a head taller than myself; their average height I should think is nearly six and a half feet, and there were specimens that could have been a little less than seven feet high.
Against all this, however, we need to rank the evidence of other visitors whose accounts went out of their way to stress that the Patagonians they encountered were of entirely normal height. These men include John Winter, Drake’s second-in-command, who believed the stories of giants were a Spanish invention; Sir John Narborough (who spent 10 months on the Patagonian coast in 1670); and Wallis and Carteret, who measured a selection of the men they encountered with rods and found them to be tall, certainly, but certainly not gigantic:
one was six feet seven inches high, several more were six feet five and six feet six inches, but the stature of the greater part of them was from five feet ten to six feet.
By the time this latter account appeared, attempts were already being made to explain the wide variations that had been reported in the height of the Patagonians. Byron, in 1766, and John Hawkesworth, writing in 1773, seems to have been the first to suggest that the giants were members of a distinct tribe who lived somewhere in the Patagonian interior and only visited the coast sporadically. Charles Darwin, who landed in the Straits of Magellan with the men of HMS Beagle, met with one of the supposed “giants,” who he thought was only about six feet tall, and subsequently proposed an alternative theory:
Their height appears greater than it really is, from their large guanaco [ie animal skin] mantles, their long flowing hair, and general figure.
Robert FitzRoy, who captained the Beagle, backed Darwin up in this respect, Curious to know the truth about Patagonia’s “giants,” he made close observations and estimated that they men he met were mostly between 5 feet 10 and six feet tall, still above the average for Europeans of the day. Titus Coan, a Protestant missionary who worked in Patagonia in the 1830s, similarly recorded that he met no natives who stood taller than six foot six.
Overall, then, the evidence for Patagonian giants is mixed. Early accounts are often dismissed as travellers’ tales – Pero describes Pigafetta’s claims as “pregnant with exaggeration and magical stories” – but a scattering of claims of encounters with individuals of truly exceptional stature, the product either of measurement or of side-by-side comparisons, do exist. These accounts take us beyond the lazier types of debunking – the suggestion, for example, that the “giants” were simply the invention of map-makers who decorated the unexplored portions of their globes with images of strange, imagined monsters.
Broadly speaking, explanations that attempt to account for the evidence for giants can be split into two broad categories. Davis, and several earlier authors, accept that the members of one Patagonian tribe were of unusually tall stature, perhaps averaging as much as six feet, and/or that they had unusually long torsos, and so looked taller than they were when mounted or when sitting down, all while pointing out that – because the average Spaniard of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries stood about 5 feet 3 inches – even a six footer might look gigantic. Others follow Darwin in suggesting that the natives’ height was always exaggerated as a result of their clothing and their appearance.
Since no reliable survey of the average height of any Patagonian tribe seems to exist to back up the former theory, no reliable evidence of “giant skeletons” has ever been found, and since average heights in any population of above six feet have not been attained even today, with the help of considerably better diets than we can reasonably assume were enjoyed by the indigenous peoples of the far south of the Americas in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, my own suspicion is that Darwin probably got it right. It does seem possible that one or two explorers encountered one or two native Patagonians of significantly above average height, but there is certainly no good evidence for whole tribes of giants, or of groups whose average height was significantly above six feet.
Benjamin Franklin Bourne, The Captive in Patagonia, Or Life Among the Giants: A Personal Narrative (1853); Surekha Davis, “Monstrous ontology and environmental thinking,” in Renaissance Ethnography and the Invention of the Human: Worlds, Maps and Monsters (2016); Rupert Gould, “There were giants in those days,” in Enigmas: Another Book of Unexplained Facts (1929); Alejandro Pero, “The Tehuelche of Patagonia as Chronicled by Travelers and Explorers in the Nineteenth Century,” in Briones and Lanata (eds), Archaeological and Anthropological Perspectives on the Native Peoples of Pampa, Patagonia, and Tierra del Fuego in the Nineteenth Century. (2002); Helen Wallis, “The Patagonian giants,” in Robert E. Gallagher (ed.), Byron’s Journal of His Circumnavigation, 1764-1766 (1964)
Q: Whatever happened to the hotel detective?
I read a lot of old pulp fiction, and hotel detectives are in a lot of the stories. But I also travel a lot and have never noticed one.
A: Hotel detectives were indeed once extremely ubiquitous, and are now indeed much less commonly encountered. They were men who did a very distinct type of job. They were responsible for ensuring that the hotel the detective worked for was safe and secure – memoirs describe regular rounds of the building and endless testing of locks – but they were, for the most part, far more concerned with protecting their employer than their guests. Their job certainly did involve preventing crimes from taking place on the premises, and solving, where possible, those that did occur – but mostly this was done to ensure that the business they worked for was not being ripped off. Only occasionally, and at the very best hotels, would their work extend to more customer-focused activities, such as offering protection to distinguished guests.
A large proportion of these “house officers” were former policemen who took hotel posts after retiring from the force. Such men made ideal employees. The skills required of a hotel detective included a good understanding of human nature, a talent for conflict resolution, and a good working knowledge of the local criminal element – all things that were readily picked up in the course of a career in law enforcement. Ample experience of dealing with crooks and crime was important not least because, in taking up a house position, a former policeman forfeited a good deal of the powers he’d had as a cop. “The hotel detective is the world’s most fenced-in man,” the journalist Frederick Laurens observed in 1946. “He has no badge, can carry no weapon, has no authority to push people around, as have the regular police, and must either rely on tact or threats and ugly looks to get his way.”
Experience was the most important attribute of a hotel detective, since, for the most part, such men had three main functions to perform. The first was to protect the hotel’s reputation and prevent it from unwittingly breaking any laws, which, especially in earlier periods, often involved preventing an establishment from acquiring a reputation as the sort of place that allowed unmarried couples to have sex on the premises – very often an offence at the time under laws relating to “unlawful cohabitation”. A 1979 article in Texas Monthly notes that in earlier times a house officer would, as part of his routine, challenge male guests with the line “Is there a woman in your room?” Dev Collans, in his pulpy exposé I Was A House Detective (1954), describes enlisting bellboys to report on “couples who wouldn’t open their suitcases while the bellboy was still in the room; married couples didn’t hesitate to. A man in sleek clothes with a woman whose shoes were run down at the heels is another giveaway.”
The detective’s second major task was to screen new employees and know as much as possible about those who made it onto the staff, in order to prevent them from robbing both the hotel (of food, silverware, bedlinen and pretty much everything else) and the guests. In this respect, a New York Times article dating to 1902 recounted how “Detective Sergeant ‘Sam’ Davis, who has for twenty years been responsible to Police Headquarters for all the hotel detective work between Fourteenth and Fifty-ninth Streets” in Manhattan, fingered “one chef, three cooks, two porters, half a dozen chambermaids, and a woman in charge of the linen room” as thieves in a single hotel. As soon as the 13 malefactors had been fired, “the robberies stopped [and] the proprietor found his receipts growing larger.”
Thirdly, a house officer would be expected to keep criminal elements from causing trouble in his hotel. This involved recognising known crooks and prostitutes – another reason why retired police officers from the district were highly favoured as hotel detectives. A detective might, for example, agree on a signal with the desk clerk to warn of a known criminal attempting to check in; since the crook would be highly likely to leave without paying his bill, he would be told the establishment was full and there were no vacancies.
Of course, an especially large proportion of their work involved spotting when guests were taking prostitutes into their rooms, and either stopping them or, more usually – since active intervention embarrassed and angered guests, and tended to cause scenes – logging the girls’ locations, and dealing later with any problems that occurred as a result of their visits to the hotel. These only rarely had anything to do with sex; as Charley Coyle, a house detective at the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas, noted in 1979, “These girls aren’t there just to have sex and get paid. It would be different if they were. Not so much trouble for us. They’re there to steal.” According to Gregory Curtis of Texas Monthly, keeping track of prostitutes was by far the most time-consuming aspect of the house detective’s job: “Every hotel detective I talked with, from those in the plainest hotels to those in the fanciest, said prostitution was still their main problem.” One reason for this was that sex workers favoured working in hotels, not least because of the advantage that a prostitute had over her clients when they were in a public space. Lou Speer of the Adolphus explained that
A clever working girl can get the money she’s been promised, then clean out her client’s wallet and possibly his luggage, and escape from the room with her virtue, at least the sexual part of it, intact.
No, they don’t usually carry guns or nothing. They don’t really have to. A lot of times they’ll get out of the rooms just by saying they’re going down the hall for some ice to put in their drinks…. Usually what they do is make sure the mark takes his clothes off first. Hell, he’s got his own ideas about what she’s there for, so all he has to do is just heat him up a little bit, and he’s not going to think twice about stripping down. Then, with him naked as a jaybird, she can grab his wallet and run out the door and there’s no way he’s going to come running after her.”
Interestingly – in Speer’s experience, at least – the hotel detective’s main role in cases such as this was not to catch the girl, but to prevent the guest from attempting to bring a claim of theft against the staff. Few men would admit to bringing a prostitute into the establishment, much less to being stupid enough to allow themselves to be robbed by her, but many would attempt to lodge a complaint that their wallet had been stolen while they were in the hotel. In such circumstances, Speer and his men had recourse to their “hooker reports” – a log they kept of single guests who entered the premises with women on their arms.
“If a guest comes down in the morning and says his wallet was stolen, the first thing I do is look up my hooker reports to see if he had a girl up there. The guest is trying to say that the hotel is responsible for the loss. You ought to see the expression on some of their faces when I say, ‘But what about the girl you took up to your room at twelve-eleven last night?'”
As to why hotel detectives are now a dying breed: two key developments have combined to do away with them. One is changes in morals; no modern hotel is likely to acquire a dubious reputation simply because it allows clearly unmarried couples to share a room, and it’s no longer against the law for guests of this sort to “unlawfully cohabit” – so house detectives are no longer required to police the guests. The second is the ubiquity of close-circuit television. When it comes to deterring and detecting theft, it’s cheaper and probably more effective to outfit a hotel with multiple CCTV cameras than it is to pay a roster of former detectives to work often unsociable hours to try to solve such crimes after they have taken place. The problems of staff theft and of prostitutes stealing from guest rooms can both fairly readily be investigated now – and evidence handed over to the local police – without recourse to a house detective.
“Hotel detectives and their experiences“, New York Times, 1 June 1902
Dev Collans, I Was a House Detective (1954)
Gregory Curtis, “Hotel detective,” Texas Monthly February 1979
Norman Hayner, Hotel Life (1936)
Frederick V. Laurens, “Hotel detective – 1946” in Best: the Popular Digest
Frank O’Sullivan & Walter Wright, Practical Instruction in Police Work and Detective Science (1940)
Horace Herbert Smith, Crooks of the Waldorf: Being the Story of Joe Smith, Master Detective (1930)
Q: At any point between the end of WWI and the end of WWII was there ever a rise of supernatural beliefs in Japan?
A: In fact there was – though the “interwar” period has much less meaning in Japan than it does in the west, and the spike in interest and belief can be more accurately dated to c.1910-35. This rise and fall had more to do with the history of Japan’s engagement with western ideas than it did with the impact of the two World Wars.
I would point you towards four figures in particular who played a key part in this spike, and who influenced the way in which Japan thought about the subjects you are interested in: Asano Wasaburō (1847-1937), a teacher at the Naval War College who imported a version of western spiritualism into Japan; Deguchi Nao (1837-1918), who was a sort of trance medium who claimed to have visions of the deity Ushitora-no-Konjin; her son-in-law Deguchi Onisaburô (1871-1946), a flamboyant Shintoist-spiritualist who blended existing folk belief with new concepts of divination, exorcism and millennarianism to create a new religion, Oomoto, which eventually took on an unusual anti-state flavour that resulted in its persecution in the 1920s; and Inoue Enryo (1858-1919).
To deal with Enryo first: he was an academic philosopher who attempted to fuse Buddhism with western science and founded, first the Enigma Research Society, and then the more successful Fushigi Kenkyukai, or “Society for Research on the Mysterious” in 1886 – pretty much at the same time as the rough-equivalent Society for Psychical Research was founded in the UK (1882). He became popularly known as “Dr Ghost” and was the creator of what Japanese call yokaigaku, literally “monsterology” but more usually translated as “mystery studies”.
Enryo was an active Buddhist (in fact at one point in his life, a Buddhist priest) and as such found it easier than many of his fellow academics to accept the reality of some psychical phenomena. One of his key concepts was that the distinction between the “false mystery” and “true mystery” was key to understanding superstitious belief. His society studied “Ghosts, foxes and tanukis [狐狸], strange dreams, reincarnations, coincidences [偶合], prophesies [予言], monsters [怪物], witchcraft [幻術], insanity, and so on.”
There’s an English paper on “Inoue Enryo’s Mystery Studies” in the journal International Inoue Enryo Research, 2 (2014), 119-55, and a full bibliography of western language materials about him can be seen here.
The other three were significantly more influential than Enryo, and they have been quite extensively studied. See Nancy Stalker, Prophet Motive: Deguchi Onisaburo, Oomoto and the Rise of New Religion in Imperial Japan; Emily Groszos Ooms, Women and Millenarian Protest in Meiji Japan: Deguchi Nao and Omotokyo; Birgit Staemmler, “The chinkon kishin: divine help in times of national crisis.” In Kubota et al [eds], Religion and National Identity in the Japanese Context and Kenta Kasai. “Theosophy and related movements in Japan.” In Prohl & Nelson [eds], Handbook of Contemporary Japanese Religions
In addition, Helen Hardacre, the great authority on Shintoism, has a useful introductory chapter on their movement in Sharon A Minichello (ed.), Japan’s Competing Modernities: Issues in Culture and Democracy, 1900-1930 entitled “Asano Wasaburō and Japanese Spiritualism in Early Twentieth-Century Japan.” This paper is a good English language intro that explains how western spiritualist concepts entered Japan and were adapted to relate to pre-existing religious, nationalist and especially shamanic concepts – bringing the new movement inevitably into conflict with state-sponsored Shintoism. Hardacre concedes that throughout this period such beliefs were marginal to the mainstream of Japanese culture. However,
nineteenth-century spiritualism from the West was a subject of great interest in early twentieth-century Japan. Situated on a border between mass culture and the more rarefied pursuits of Westernized, bourgeois salon culture, Japanese spiritualism represented, in part, the importation of Western cultural fads for seances, telekinesis, clairvoyance, and hypnosis. As such, it was [initially] romantic and escapist in a larger cultural context of empire, industrialization, and the expansion of state powers.
Trouble really started when Asano’s ideas ideas became fused with the apolocalyptic preaching of Deguchi Omisaburo, who caused considerable official alarm by attempting to spread his ideas in military and university circles. Hardacre, Ooms and Stalker all also discuss the ways in which western-influenced spiritualism, in the form of the Omotokyo movement founded by Deguchi Nao but later run by Asano, was heavily suppressed in Japan in two campaigns dating to 1921 and 1935.
Finally, a quick summary of other English-language resources:
- Michael Dylan Foster’s Pandemonium and Parade: Japanese Monsters and the Culture of Yokai looks at the evolution of the Japanese concept of ‘monster’ – specifically the variety known as yôkai from 1700-2000. It covers the way in which ghost and monster stories evolved over this period, but it’s not a chronological study.
- Noriko T. Reider’s Japanese Demon Lore: Oni from Ancient Times to the Present includes a couple of chapters on the changing conceptions of demons in Tokyo in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, with a focus on the increasing commercialisation of demons in the media.
- Suzuki Kentaro’s paper “Divination in contemporary Japan” is an analysis of a detailed survey of contemporary divination practices. Although focused on the present, it is very useful in presenting a breakdown of the types of belief in divination that exist in Japan, and as such it would be a useful jumping off point for more more detailed research in the period that interests you. Incidentally, Suzuki comments that this is “a subject upon which there is at present almost no academic research.” In Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 22 (1995), 249-66.
- A popular account of palmistry in Japan just before the period you are interested in is S. Culin, “Palmistry in China and Japan,” Overland and Out West 23 (1894). This one is available online from the University of Michigan library.
- Curran et al, in Multiple Translation Communities in Contemporary Japan, mention that the vampire story became popular in Japan in the period 1915-30, as a result of the influx of translated western works of all sorts that peaked in the early 1900s. The Japanese term for vampire, kyuketsuki, was coined in 1915. It seems this new interest was literary and academic, however, rather than resulting in the appearance of actual supposed cases of vampiric activity.
Q: Did Ramses II try to erase Queen Hatshepsut from the record books because she was a successful ruler or because she was a woman (who depicted herself as male)?
A: At its simplest, the answer to your question is that the destruction wrought on Hatshepsut’s monuments and memory seems to have occurred explicitly because she was a women – for reasons that I will try to set out for you below.
We do need to be honest about the problem here: we have no histories, no chronicles from Hatshepsut’s time (c.1507-1457 B.C.). The evidence we have is – bar a few late king lists – archaeological, and while it can tell us something of what happened during her reign as pharaoh, and after her death, it tells us little – directly at least – about why things happened as they did: why so many examples of her cartouche were shaved down and recut in order to ascribe them to some other pharaoh, and why elsewhere “her entire figure and accompanying inscription were effected and replaced with the image of some innocuous ritual object such as an offering table.” [Dorman] All answers are speculation; the distinction that we need to draw is that between informed and ill-informed guesswork.
But, with that said, the following is broadly agreed, by most Egyptologists, to be true: that Hatshepsut was a powerful member of the Egyptian royal family of the 18th dynasty, being the eldest daughter of one of Egypt’s greatest warrior-kings, the pharaoh Thuthmosis I (her very name means ‘Foremost of Noble Women’); that she was fortunate, in that her parents had no surviving male child, which eventually led her to move close to a position of power – as was commonly the case in ancient Egypt, she was married to a close relative, her half-brother, also Thuthmosis, the son of a high-ranking woman in the royal harem who eventually succeeded to the throne; and that she was also, very probably, ambitious, for when her husband died, leaving her to rule as regent for his infant heir by another woman from the royal harem – her step-son and nephew, the future Tuthmosis III – she was able to manouevre herself (in ways that have, unfortunately, left no clear traces in the archaeological record) into a position of absolute power. Hatshepsut the king’s-woman (which is the literal translation of the ancient Egyptian word for ‘queen’ – rank in this period, even for a woman of Hatshepsut’s lineage, was entirely the product of a husband’s or a father’s status) became Hatshepsut the pharaoh, ruling alone and portraying herself in masculine terms, most famously by overseeing the production of statues that showed hear sporting a full beard.
It’s worth pausing briefly to look at the reign before we consider what happened to Hatshepsut’s monuments and to her reputation after she died. One key point to make is that, while she was not actually the first woman to take absolute power in Egypt, she was the first one to do so in a time of peace; the only previous female pharaoh, Sobekneferu of the 12th dynasty (r. c.1800 B.C., at the tail end of the Middle Kingdom period), had taken power at a time of national crisis, and apparently out of necessity, there being no other senior royal males available to rule. Another is that Hatshepsut was apparently not, as she is sometimes portrayed, a ruler with a distinctively “feminine” agenda, preferring peace to war. It is true that one of the more notable achievements of her reign was a trading voyage to the land of Punt (far to the south, sometimes identified with modern Somalia), but Egypt did wage war – successfully – in Hatshepsut’s time. This, together with her use of standard Egyptian iconography, and her entirely conventional determination to divert vast state resources to the construction of funerary monuments for herself (her magnificent mortuary temple, which survives, is one of the most iconic tourist attractions on the Nile) tend to argue that, whatever the reason for the post-mortem destruction that partially obliterated her name, it was not because she forced through policies or ordered actions that were outrageous or reviled. She was no Akhenaten – the 18th dynasty pharaoh notorious for neglecting the old gods in favour of a quasi-monotheistic new cult focused on the sun god, Aten, whose name was also wiped from Egyptian records after his death.It is also very helpful to look at what we know of Hatshepsut’s relationship with her stepson, Tuthmosis III, since it was in his reign that much of the destruction wrought on her monuments took place. Two points emerge most clearly here. The first is that there is no direct evidence that Hatshepsut ever did anything to suggest that Tuthmosis was not the rightful heir to the throne. Dating the monuments that survive, it would appear that she ruled in her stepson’s stead, as regent, for at least two years before claiming power for herself; thereafter, Tuthmosis was not only allowed to live, but was actually given a solid training for taking power, being not only highly educated by the standards of the time, but also allowed to rise within the ranks of the Egyptian army until he became its commander-in-chief.
It seems inconceivable that the stepson would have been permitted a distinguished military career, and command over a powerful army, had Hatshepsut viewed him as a direct threat to her rule. Tuthmosis must have accepted – at least on some level – Hatshepsut’s right to rule, and we have no evidence that he made any attempt to seize power or prepare any sort of coup while she was still alive. Similarly, it is almost impossible to believe that a woman, who long custom and Egyptian political philosophy alike conceived as having no divine right to rule, could have held onto power for 22 years without the active support of a large portion of the country’s elite. There are other examples in Egyptian history of inconvenient heirs meeting suspicious ends, and of elites rising up against unpopular rulers; it has to be significant that neither of these things occurred during Hatshepsut’s reign.
Several alternatives have been advanced to explain how power may have been wielded during this period. We know that Hatshepsut made an effort to stress the legitimacy she had acquired via her royal parentage, emphasising not only that she was the rightful heir to a powerful king, but also divine, as the product of her father’s union with a royal mother from the same family. In this sense, importantly, she was actually more “royal” than her half-brother and husband, who was the son of a much lower-status woman. We also know that Hatshepsut was depicted far more commonly than was her stepson, and nominal co-ruler, on monuments constructed during her regency and then reign; surveying her mortuary complex, Vanessa Davies counts 87 occurrences of Hatshepsut’s name and figure, compared to 37 of Thuthmosis III. All this suggests that her efforts to portray herself as a worthy ruler, and as a divine monarch, were successful, and perhaps this best explains why she did not feel threatened by her stepson, and why she not only allowed him his army career, but also permitted him to be represented, during her reign, as a figure of considerable power and potency. Davies concludes that he “was represented as a multi-faceted and powerful figure; thus one might infer that he actually behaved and functioned in this manner, or, at the very least, that Hatshepsut intended for him to be viewed in this light.”
So while the Egyptian state may have expected and prefered to be ruled over by a male pharaoh, it seems there was no absolute proscription on female rule; it was highly unusual, but neither blasphemous nor “impossible.” Joyce Tyldesley concludes that
Legally, there was no prohibition on a woman ruling Egypt. Although the ideal pharaoh was male – a handsome, athletic, brave, pious and wise male – it was recognised that occasionally a woman might need to act to preserve the dynastic line. When Sobeknofru ruled as king at the end of the troubled 12th Dynasty she was applauded as a national heroine. Mothers who deputised for their infant sons, and queens who substituted for husbands absent on the battlefield, were totally acceptable. What was never anticipated was that a regent would promote herself to a permanent position of power.
Yet this is not to say that Hatshepsut was not aware of the underlying weakness of her position. There are two points to make in this respect. First, let’s hear again from Tyldesley:
Morally Hatshepsut must have known that Tuthmosis was the rightful king. She had, after all, accepted him as such for the first two years of his reign. We must therefore deduce that something happened in year three to upset the status quo and to encourage her to take power. Unfortunately, Hatshepsut never apologises and never explains… Indeed, seen from her own point of view, her actions were entirely acceptable. She had not deposed her stepson, merely created an old fashioned co-regency, possibly in response to some national emergency. The co-regency, or joint reign, had been a feature of Middle Kingdom royal life, when an older king would associate himself with the more junior partner who would share the state rituals and learn his trade. As her intended successor, Tuthmosis had only to wait for his throne; no one could have foreseen that she would reign for over two decades.
It is interesting, in this context, to consider how Hatshepsut portrayed herself over the course of her reign. Early statuary from her regency period clearly depicts a woman wearing male regalia, breasts visible on a naked upper body. Later, after her coronation as pharaoh, depictions change; Hatshepsut is now portrayed as a man, with wider shoulders and no breasts. And she was buried as a man, as well, in a king’s sarcophagus. As Kara Cooney points out, this can be seen as a matter of convention, not deception; Hatshepsut never changed her – very clearly feminine – name, so it seems unlikely she was trying to pretend to be something she was not. Yet it is difficult to imagine that female rule was simply accepted without any question in the Egypt of her day; its consequences were too stark a departure from religiously-rooted norms. The problem here was one of political philosophy, not simply politics. But, as Cooney notes:
Given that the king on earth was nothing less than the human embodiment of the creator god’s potentiality, Hatshepsut must have been all too aware that her rule posed a serious existential problem: she could not populate a harem, spread her seed, and fill the royal nurseries with potential heirs; she could not claim to be the strong bull of Egypt.
Perhaps, then, it is better to see “male” images of Hatshepsut as nods to a conventional iconography that applied equally to any Egyptian ruler, of whatever sex, than it is to imagine them as admissions of serious political weakness.
So, with all this said, we can turn at last to answering the question posed: why were Hatshepsut’s images destroyed after her death, and why was her name removed from so many of the monuments she made?
It’s important, first, to recognise that the new regime was not a complete break with the past. Thuthmosis continued to employ a large proportion of the royal servants who had served his stepmother. And the desecration he ordered – which Cooney estimates accounted for “hundreds, if not thousands” of images and inscriptions – was not a campaign of attempted absolute obliteration, as the campaign against Akhenaten seems to have been. Not all of Hatshepsut’s statues were destroyed, and not all of her cartouches were hacked away; a significant number survived, not least those representing her as queen, including some that were quite prominently displayed on her tomb, which would surely have been a prime target for any Roman-style campaign of damnatio memoriae. The same is true of the desecration that seems to have occurred to the monuments of her prime supporter, her steward Senenmut – whose name was removed from only 9 of his surviving 25 statues. Cooney summarises by saying that the statues that were removed or desecrated were those in public places – the aim, therefore, may have been to “prevent people from seeing and interacting with her as king.” The archaeological record, moreover, strongly suggests that the campaign did not begin immediately on Thuthmosis’s accession – Hatshepsut was buried with all honour, for one thing, and works underway at the time of her death were completed, which can only imply that her heir ordered work on them to continue. Something happened later to change this, something that Cooney concludes was probably a shift that took place in the mind of an ageing ruler considering his legacy.
Modern consensus is that the desecration of Hatshepsut’s monuments cannot have begun earlier than the 42nd year of Thuthmosis’s reign, which is 20 years after his aunt’s death. We also know that it continued into the reign of his son, Amenhotep II – to a period when few of those responsible would have had any memory of the female pharaoh. Finally, where Hatshepsut’s name was obliterated, it was rarely replaced with her stepson-nephew’s; more usually, the new name carved was that of her father, his grandfather, Thuthmosis I.
All of this suggests that the campaign was neither wildly aggressive, nor “personal”. It seems unlikely to have been carried out on the orders of a man who had spent the 20 years of Hatshepsut’s reign boiling with anger at being usurped.
Most modern archaeological interpretations of Hatshepsut’s reign, including those of Dorman, Tyldesley and Cooney, prefer instead to see the destruction of her name as a form of reassertion of what would have been seen as the the natural political and theological order – “an impersonal attempt at retrospective political correctness” (Tyldesley) aimed at stressing the male prerogative to rule. This would explain why Thuthmosis seems to have ordered the adoption of distinctive artistic style in sculptures and paintings showing him – one that was very much a break from the old style that had existed in Hatshepsut’s style, and which harked back, more importantly, to the styles adopted by his grandfather. Dorman argues that the key intention was to stress Thuthmosis III’s royal lineage (and hence legitimacy) while removing signs of female disruption to the approved order, most probably because “the recently invented phenomenon of a female king had created such conceptual and practical complications that the evidence of it was best erased.”
For Cooney, meanwhile,
“the Egyptian system of political-religious power simply continued to work for the benefit of male dynasty. Hatshepsut’s kingship was a fantastic and unbelievable aberration. Ancient civilization didn’t suffer a woman to rule, no matter how much she conformed to religious and political systems; no matter how much she ascribed her rule to the will of the gods themselves; no matter how much she changed her womanly form into masculine ideals. Her rule was perceived as a complication by later rulers—praiseworthy yet blameworthy, conservatively pious and yet audaciously innovative—nuances that the two kings who ruled after her reconciled only through the destruction of her public monuments.
Kara Cooney, The Woman Who Would Be King: Hatshepsut’s Rise to Power in Ancient Egypt (Broadway Books, 2015); Vanessa Davies, ‘Hatshepsut’s use of Tuthmosis III in Her Program of Legitimation,’ Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt 41 (2004); Peter F. Dorman, ‘The proscription of Hatshepsut,’ in Roehrig, Dreyfus & Keller, Hatshepsut from Queen to Pharaoh (Yale, 2005); Joyce Tyldesley, ‘Hatshepsut and Tuthmosis: a royal feud?’ BBC History, 2011
Q: This article in The Atlantic mentions that the murder rate in the Medieval period was 12%. That seems absurdly high. Is there any truth to it?
It just seems absurd. Like, just estimating, half the world’s population or more was in India and China. China and south India both had long periods of political stability – does that mean a European had something like a 25% chance of dying due to violence? Are they counting people who die to due to war-caused famines as being murdered?
A: Tracking this claim to its source is a good example of heading down an Alice in Wonderland-style rabbit hole.
Checking back to the article you cite, it’s clear that the claim is based on a new and really quite exceptionally broad survey of violence among all mammal populations. This was published in Nature this week as Gomez et al, “The phylogenetic roots of human lethal violence.” Superficially this means the source is an impressive one, since Nature is certainly one of the most prestigious scientific journals in the world. However, it’s worth noting that the paper appears as a “Letter” rather than as a full fledged article, and that Nature has a surprising history of publishing high-profile but what can politely be termed “controversial” articles, such as one offering a scientific name for the Loch Ness Monster based on underwater photographs of what later turned out to be almost certainly a tree stump.
In this case The Atlantic itself sounds some cautionary notes about the evidential basis of the violence survey. It is a meta-analysis, and by its nature not a very comprehensive one (that is, it does not include any original research, but collates the results of earlier surveys) that attempts to compare the levels of violence among a huge variety of different mammal populations across the whole of the archaeological record. A total of 1024 species are surveyed, humans being just one of them. So it’s reasonable to wonder exactly how much effort was put into making sure the human sample was comprehensive and representative, and problems associated with the data had been completely thought through.
The Atlantic has a few pertinent comments about the team’s methodology:
- “First, he and his team compiled everything they could find on causes of death for various mammals, accumulating some 3,000 studies over two years.”
- As for the sources of information for the human sample: they did this “by poring through statistical yearbooks, archaeological sites, and more, to work out causes of death in 600 human populations between 50,000 BC to the present day.”
As for the way in which the data has been handled: “Polly Wiessner, an anthropologist from the University of Utah … is unimpressed with the study’s human half. “They have created a real soup of figures, throwing in individual conflicts with socially organized aggression, ritualized cannibalism, and more. The sources of data used for prehistoric violence are highly variable in reliability. When taken out of context, they are even more so.”
“Richard Wrangham from Harvard University has similar concerns about the mammalian data, noting that Gómez have folded a lot of different kinds of killing—infanticide, adult deaths, and more—into a single analysis. And from an evolutionary standpoint, it matters less whether two related species kill their own kind at a similar rate, but whether they do so in a similar way.”
To go further into this requires a close reading of the original article, which is available online here. It’s worth noting that the article itself gives very inadequate sources for most of the information it contains, which is not surprising when it is based on such a vast meta-analysis. To find out what the actual sources are we have to go to the “Supplementary material” section which is separately available here.
Let’s summarise what we can discover about the sources used and their comprehensiveness and reliability by reading through these two sources.
First, the Letter itself.
This points out that the human violence figures available were divided into four categories by socio-political organisation: bands, tribes, chiefdoms and states. This is a categorisation widely used in the social sciences (eg anthropology) but one that I’d say a lot of historians find unhelpful. After all, there’s a vast historical literature devoted entirely to trying to define what a “state” actually is.
There are also some acknowledgements of potential bias that give some clues as to the sorts of sources being used: “The level of violence inferred from skeletal remains could be under-estimated because many deadly injuries do not damage the bones…” And there’s also a reference to “statistical yearbooks” being a prime source of information. So it would appear that the data for the medieval period is going to be based on the archaeological record, rather than the written record. There’s not much clue yet as to how broad the sample will be, geographically or temporally, but if a lot of reliance is being placed on “statistical yearbooks” then that sounds some pretty loud warning bells for me when it comes to making accurate assessments of the medieval period, since, of course, no such contemporary sources exist for this period.
That’s about it for the Letter itself, and the bibliography offers no further clues as to the exact sources of information. To go deeper we have to look at the “Supplementary information:” document. This contains a couple of useful additional bits of information. First, by “medieval period” the authors mean the period 1300-500 BP, which is 716-1516 A.D. Second, their data is based on a sample of 17,372 human remains. Again this sounds warning bells, since such as sample size is not going to be enough to provide proper coverage of the whole human population across the whole globe for that whole period. It’s a real drop in the ocean sort of a figure – a sampling. Actually, we’re told that figures from 600 different populations were compiled for the survey as a whole (covering the period from 50,000 BP to now), which in one sense is quite impressive, but which also implies that very likely no one population is followed in a consistent and systematic way across the whole period.
Third, there is a better definition of “lethal violence” offered: for the purposes of the paper, this is defined as “the percentage of the people that died owing to interpersonal violence.” If we think about that for a moment in the context of earlier cautions, this sets off more alarm bells. If we’re looking at archaeological data, it’s going to be very difficult to distinguish for example between interpersonal violence and accidents and suicides in many of these records. Was a broken leg inflicted in a battle or a fall? If the researchers have been scrupulous, I would expect this factor would result in a form of understating of figures for the medieval periods, since they should only be counting wounds that were clearly inflicted by weapons. Again though we have to recognise that this whole debate goes on in the wider context of the difficulty of identifying some marks of violence from purely skeletal remains. Many arrow wounds, not to mention cut throats, deaths by poison etc etc are not going to show up readily in the archaeological record.
Finally, we can use the data supplied here to be much more explicit about the precise sources consulted. I’ve copied the portion of the survey data that refers to the medieval period here.
This shows the site of the remains surveyed, rough date and number of remains, and (final column) a source, which you can chase up in the bibliography if you’re so inclined. They are anthropological and archaeological, not historical. Just to give one example, one of the sources for Serbian violence is Djuric MP, Roberts CA, Rakocevic ZB, Djonic DD, Lesic AR (2006). “Fractures in late Medieval skeletal populations from Serbia.” American Journal of Physical Anthropology 130: 167-178.
From all this we can see that the survey is very limited – it covers only the UK, Ireland, Portugal and Spain, Scandinavia, Germany, Poland and Croatia. Even allowing for my earlier comments about the lack of comprehensiveness here, in my opinion this is a ridiculously limited pool of data from which to extrapolate a worldwide, pan-medieval figure. There are many reasons for supposing that even if the European figures are representative (which we can’t know, but look at some of the specifics – two Viking cemeteries, a burial pit associated with the Battle of Towton (the bloodiest battle, probably, in British history), a royal graveyard in Croatia, and some monks’ graveyards … it would be so easy to argue that these are very unrepresentative samples), these figures are just not very useful.
All we can really conclude from this is that a survey of remains from 40 different, broadly medieval, European sites, containing a very varied number of bodies, from very varied periods that include some periods of war, estimates deaths by violence at an average of 12%. Even in this limited context, I immediately have hundreds of questions about how typical these sites are, what sorts of violence, how we know who inflicted what wounds in what circumstances, and even whether the victim survived them to die a natural death much later. None of these questions are answered by the Letter and to focus on something as specific as deaths in the medieval period is to use the paper itself for purposes it was not really intended for.
Q: I am a hot-blooded young British woman in the Victorian era hitting the streets of Manchester for a night out with my fellow ladies and I’ve got a shilling burning a hole in my purse. What kind of vice and wanton pleasures are available to me?
A: To begin with, I need to caution that Manchester – which looked like this in 1870 – has not been as widely written about as other cities, so I have drawn on some studies of other major cities as well; in addition, there would have been huge gulfs in experience depending on social class, and the “Victorian era” is in itself an extremely broad term, covering 60 years and some substantial shifts in lived experience and in the types of entertainment on offer. For all these reasons, consider this answer a rather broad one that attempts to cover young women’s experiences in the big city generally, and mostly in the latter half of the Victorian period.
Let’s start, though, by considering what elements may have been unique to Victorian Manchester, which in the course of this period passed Liverpool and Dublin to contend, with Birmingham and Glasgow, for consideration as the “second city of the empire.” It was, to put it bluntly, an industrial hell-hole, albeit one that offered exciting opportunities – the main centre of cotton manufacturing in the UK at a time when Britain was a gigantic net exporter of finished textile products. This had several important impacts that we need to be aware of, of which the most important was that the city became a magnet for workers from rural or small-town backgrounds, who could easily find work in the myriad of factories that sprang up there, and lodgings in the vast swathes of slum housing that inevitably grew up as a result. All this meant that Manchester was home to a large number of young workers of both sexes who were a considerable degree free of the sort of restraints that they would experience at home. Adolescent and young women might live without parents, and sometimes siblings; the social bonds and restraints created by the church were also significantly weakened, and the Religious Census of 1851 revealed church attendance among working class people in major industrial centres to be scandalously low.
By the 1840s, then, Manchester was already the greatest and most terrible of all the products of the industrial revolution: a large-scale experiment in unfettered capitalism in a decade that witnessed a spring tide of economic liberalism. Government and business alike swore by free trade and laissez faire, with all the attendant profiteering and poor treatment of workers that their doctrines implied. It was common for factory hands to labour for 14 hours a day, six days a week, and the conditions in domestic service – which was the other main source of employment for young women – were only a little better. Chimneys choked the sky; Manchester’s population soared more than sevenfold. Thanks in part to staggering infant mortality, the life expectancy of those born in Manchester fell to a mere 28 years, half that of the inhabitants of the surrounding countryside. One keen observer of all this was an already-radical Friedrich Engels, sent to Manchester in 1842 to help manage a family-owned thread business (and keep him out of the hands of the Prussian police). The sights that Engels saw in Manchester (and wrote about in his first book, The Condition of the Working Class in England) helped to turn him into a communist. “I had never seen so ill-built a city,” he observed. Disease, poverty, inequality of wealth, an absence of education and hope all combined to render life in the city all but insupportable for many. As for the factory owners, Engels wrote, “I have never seen a class so demoralised, so incurably debased by selfishness, so corroded within, so incapable of progress.” Once, Engels wrote, he went into the city with such a man “and spoke to him of the bad, unwholesome method of building, the frightful condition of the working people’s quarters.” The man heard him out quietly “and said at the corner where we parted: ‘And yet there is a great deal of money to be made here: good morning, sir.’”
For all these reasons, it is hardly surprising that Manchester was also a noted centre of radicalism and an early hotbed of the labour movement in this period. The infamous Peterloo Massacre, in which cavalry had charged a vast crowd demonstrating for parliamentary reform, killing or injuring as many as 500 of them, took place in the city before Victoria’s day (1819), but it cast a very long shadow over the decades to come. Manchester became of the biggest supporters of the Chartist movement, a (for then) radical mid-century organisation calling for a large-scale expansion of the franchise.
So, to summarise: to be working class in Victorian Manchester was to do work that was long, hard and dangerous; to be an interchangeable and expendable part in an industrial machine built by factory owners who laboured to resist unionisation; and to work in an environment in which “health and safety” was largely non-existent. Terrible accidents involving unguarded, whirring machinery and human limbs were hideously common.
There was every reason to seek escape in the city’s entertainments.
Let’s begin by considering the degree to which male and female entertainments were, or were not, one and the same in the Victorian era. To a great extent, it seems, women – or at least the right sort of women – might go almost anywhere, if appropriately accompanied; at one of the main dog pits in London, where crowds assembled to watch dogs take on a dozen wild rats at a time, Henry Mayhew (author of the utterly invaluable London Labour and the London Poor) was told: “I’ve had noble lords and titled ladies come here to see the sport – on the quiet.” But class was a vital determining factor when it came to entertainment. The experiences of Molly Hughes – who was a girl in London in the 1870s, and an adolescent in the city in the 1880s, and who grew up in a family that seems to have been both relatively liberal and relatively fun-loving, give an interesting insight into just how constrained middle-class life could be for a girl. Molly had to press hard to get herself a decent education, and her experiences of life outside the family home– which she considered to be unusually broad, by the standards of her contemporaries – strike us today as almost comically limited. When Molly was a girl, her mother
was for encouraging any scrap of originality in anybody at any time, and allowed me to ‘run free’ physically and mentally. She had no idea of keeping her only girl tied to her apron-strings, and from childhood I used to go out alone in our London suburb of Canonbury, for a run with my hoop or to do a little private shopping.
As an adolescent, however, her experience of big-city fun was limited to just one or two vividly-recalled and heavily-chaperoned experiences. Here is by far the grandest and the most important that teenaged Molly ever enjoyed – and it is quite evident that the men in the family had serious concerns about the idea of taking her out at all, and that she herself was permitted no part in bringing it about. She was 16:
During the Christmas holidays of ’82, it occurred to the boys that I ought to have a little relaxation, in view of the rigorous time I was likely to have at my new school. How would I like to go to a theatre and see a real play? … I had never even been to a pantomime. Mother was consulted, and thought it wouldn’t do me any harm, especially as Dym [a brother and Cambridge undergraduate] said he would choose a small theatre and a funny farce – Betsy at the Criterion… The play itself has faded from my memory, but the accompaniments are still vivid. An anxious farewell from mother, as Dym and I stepped into a hansom, set us off.
Mother had put me into my nearest approach to an evening dress, which Dym approved, so that I was not too shy when I sat in the dress-circle, and walked into the grill-room after the play. This was full of cheery people and a pleasant hum of enjoyment and hurrying waiters. I felt it to be like something in the Arabian Nights. Tom and Charles [two older brothers] walked in and joined us. A low-toned chat with the waiter followed, while I looked with amazement at the wide array of knives and forks by our places.
’What can all these be for?’ I asked Charles.
’You’ll see. I’ll tell you which to use as we go on; and remember you needn’t finish everything up; it’s the thing to leave something on your plate.’
Such a meal as I had never dreamt of was then brought along in easy stages. Never had I been treated so obsequiously as by that waiter. When wine was served I began to wonder what mother would think. It gave that touch of diablerie to the whole evening that was the main charm. To this day I never pass the ‘Cri’ without recalling my one and only visit to it, with those adored brothers.
One reason for the paucity of Molly’s experience was that theatre, in this period, was not really considered suitable for the well-bred; the quality went to the opera, to stroll in the pleasure gardens (by now gas-lit and open in the evenings) or perhaps to musical recitals such as the popular programmes of choral singing offered by the children at London’s Foundling hospital. Nevertheless, more or less elaborate theatricals were widely available and popular with the working classes. They ranged from the “penny gaff” – the cheapest sort of neighbourhood theatre, most popular in the first half of the Victorian period, and often found in the back room of a pub – up to large theatres that operated, by the end of the era, as music halls and were the most popular form of mass entertainment before the advent of the cinema.
Given Henry Mayhew’s broad experience of (and considerable sympathy for) many of the aspects of working class life in the mid-Victorian period, it is interesting that his view of the penny gaff was negative; he thought it “the foulest, dingiest place of public entertainment I can conceive,” with an unspeakably vile odour – a place “where juvenile poverty meets juvenile crime.” The entertainment on offer consisted of six performances a day of gory retellings of violent crimes, laced with “filthy songs, clumsy dancing and filthy dancing,” which – reading between the lines – we can suppose were shocking more for their crude and sexual- or violence-charged lyrics and actions than anything else. Also shocking: most the audience at a penny gaff, Mayhew found, were women.
Street performances of various sorts were also popular and affordable. Puppetry, usually centred around Punch and Judy, was an enduring perennial in all its various forms (“the Fantoccini… the Chinese Shades…”), but there were also hundreds of performers scraping a living as clowns, fire-eaters, sword swallowers and so on. “When we perform in the streets, we generally go through this programme,” one Fantoccini man explained to Mayhew, as he set out a highly elaborate set of entertainments:
We begins with a female hornpipe dancer; then there is a set of quadrilles by some marionette figures, four females and no gentlemen… for four is as much as I can handle at once. After this we include a representation of Mr. Grimaldi the clown, and a comic dance and so forth, such as trying to catch a butterfly. Then comes the enchanted Turk. He comes on in the costume of a Turk, and he throws off his right and left arm, and then his legs, and they each change into different figures, the arms and legs into two boys and girls, a clergyman the head, and an old lady the body…. Then there’s the tightrope dancer, and next the Indian juggler… They are all carved figures, and all my own make.
Just down the road on a holiday evening, one might encounter stilt-walkers, strong-men or groups of “street posturers,” as contortionists and acrobats were sometimes known.
“There’s five in our gang now,” the leader of one such troupe of tumblers said, around 1850:
There’s three high for ‘pyramids’ and ‘the Arabs hanging down’ … there’s ‘the spread,’ that’s one on the shoulders and one hanging from each hand, and ‘the Hercules,’ that is, one on the ground while one stands on his knees, another on his shoulders, and the one one a-top of them two, on their shoulders… The dances are mostly comic dances, or, as we call them, comic hops. He throws his legs around and makes faces, and he dresses as a clown.
Such performers had to be acutely aware of exactly how and when they might be paid:
Our gang generally prefers performing in the West End, because there’s more ‘calls’ there. Gentlemen looking out of the window see us, and call us to stop and perform; but we don’t trust them, even, but make a collection when the performance is half over… And yet we like poor people better than the rich, for it’s the halfpence that tells [adds] up the best.
By the 1850s, though, tastes in entertainment were already changing. Theatre, music hall and pantomime (already becoming a Christmas-time entertainment by then, but one that was available for months at a time, rather than solely during the festive season) began to emerge in the 1860s. Performances were long and varied, often lasting from 7,00 or 7.30 till 11 – so, rather as in 1930s cinemas, with their cartoons, newsreels, second and main features, you got an entire evening’s entertainment for somewhere around 2d or 4d. Most early Victorian programmes centred on melodrama, or sometimes circus-style performance, but by the end of the period music hall had triumphed as the most popular form of entertainment for lower-class audiences. A typical programme might involve a dozen different touring artists, who worked circuits up and down the country, from popular singers such as Marie Lloyd to comedians like Dan Leno. Broad, often rather “blue” humour was increasingly permitted and appreciated as the century progressed, and it was often possible to smoke and drink in the auditorium, which helped to make for an especially raucous atmosphere.
The most famous British music hall was the Alhambra, in London, which had a capacity of about 5,000 and had started out as a sort of permanent circus venue in the 1850s. it was well known for its elaborate scenery and mixed everything from ballet to what was advertised as “a dance forbidden in Paris” into its programme. Such venues did attract female audiences, but could often be centres of prostitution. Entry to the main part of the building cost a shilling just for standing room – a large sum for the time – and, visiting in 1869, James Greenwood found that the entertainment on offer was aimed more squarely at men than at women:
in the boxes and balconies sat brazen-faced women, blazoned in tawdry finery, curled and painted … there is no mistaking these women.
Behind the numerous bars, meanwhile,
superbly-attired barmaids vend strong liquor… besides these, there are small private apartments to which a gentleman desirous of sharing a bottle of wine with a recent acquaintance may retire.
This brings us on to pub-going, which was undoubtedly a central part of working class nights out. Female drinkers were normal sights in such places, making up between a quarter and a third of the clientele (but middle- and upper class women most certainly were not). Young women tended not to be regular pub-goers however; the typical Victorian era female clientele was middle-aged or even elderly. There was a reason for this; Gutzke explains that
age, marital status, and income imposed insuperable barriers to acceptability. Young, unmarried women seldom ventured into the pub alone, lest they be mistaken for prostitutes. Middle-aged or older wives, the preponderant women in pubs, displayed two types of drinking behaviour: during the week the poverty-stricken – the largest group – drank with each other, while on the weekend wives from the lower-middle classes downwards might accompany their husbands.
While most pubs had bars that were male-only, therefore, they also had spaces where women were allowed. Charles Booth, the Salvation Army leader – and hence a morally disapproving commentator – spoke to one publican in the late 1890s who ran five public houses, in one of which which there were “seven bars, two of which are reserved for men only” – and also noted that while “children do sip the beer they are sent to fetch… this is not the origin of their liking for beer. This dates back to early infancy while they were yet in their mother´s arms. Mothers drink stout in order to increase the supply of milk in the breast but often help the baby straight from the pintpot from which they help themselves.” Another publican, “Mr Clews of Clerkenwell,” observed that this was “a great area for women’s drinking… Women take rum in cold weather and gin in hot. “Dog´s nose” they also drink which is a compound of beer and gin.”
Of course, not all entertainment was so raucous. Young mothers – and many young women were also young mothers in the Victorian period – might not often get the chance to visit any sort of theatre or penny gaff, and their entertainments were often of a gentler kind. One girl born in 1855 looked back fondly to the gatherings that her mother and her mother’s female friends had taken their children to in summer in Victoria Park, by the 1860s the only significant area of greenery in London’s crowded East End. A special attraction of the park was that it was possible to hire prams there – “very few people had prams of their own then, but it was possible to hire them at 1d an hour… We would picnic on bread and treacle under the trees and return home in the evening a troop of tired but happy children.”
For the rather better off, there were zoos in Regents Park and Surrey Gardens, the British Museum (open three days a week from 10 till 4 – and till 7pm in summer), the titillating medical exhibits of the museum of the Royal College of Surgeons, and indeed freak shows, and one-off performances of all sorts, at which one main attraction was the chance of witnessing death and disaster. A pioneering parachutist, Cocking, died attempting a descent from 5,000 feet at Vauxhall Gardens in 1837; in 1871 a huge crowd gathered on London Bridge to watch the celebrated swimmer ‘Natator, the Man-Frog’ dive from the balustrade into the river, only to be disappointed when the performer appeared but was promptly arrested for attempted suicide.
So a wide variety of entertainment was on offer in the Victorian city, much of it relatively innocent, some of it considered, by the moral authorities of the day, liable to corrupt, and a little of it actually dangerous. But we cannot close without considering the moral dimension of popular entertainment, especially as it applied to single women. Judith Walkowitz’s influential City of Dreadful Delight, for example, maps the social panics prompted by the “narratives of sexual danger” that warned young, independent Victorian-era women that enjoyment of the city’s pleasures might easily usher them down the path that led to prostitution, pre-marital sex, venereal disease, or alcoholism. All this raises important questions, not least about agency; the women Walkowitz writes about were all too often “figures in an imaginary urban landscape of male spectators” – and male predators. These fears, Walkowitz shows, typically coalesced into strident anti-vice campaigns, condemnation of most expressions of sexuality, melodramatic newspaper coverage, and fresh mutations in the Foucauldian power relationships of the period. They are also powerful reminders that the history of popular entertainment in the Victorian period is as good a demonstration as any other of the inequality of opportunity, treatment and potential agency that coloured female experience, and was typical of this, and other, periods.
Ruth Alexander, who writes of New York in a slightly later period, givens numerous excellent examples of the way in which any “rebellious working girls” who fought against the sort of constraints imposed on them in these ways could easily be treated. Even slightly sexually awakened, or emancipated, behaviour on the part of young women was regarded as a serious threat – with often catastrophic consequences for the girls. For example, 16-year-old Nellie Roberts was sent to the New York State Reformatory for Women in 1917 as a “menace to the community” for the crime of standing on the roadside and “hailing men on motorcycles and asking them for rides.” This was seen as tantamount to prostitution. Alexander’s detailed and more empathetic investigation of Nellie’s circumstances uncovered a desire to escape fuelled by a desperately unhappy family background – a dead mother; a drunk father who raped his eldest daughter and “got fresh” with Nellie, too, on several occasions; poverty; boyfriends who might sometimes be “good to her” but were equally capable of sexual assault. When we read contemporary accounts of female “social delinquency,” we would do well to remember that many such cases were underpinned by circumstances as bad as those that Nellie Roberts endured, or worse.
Ruth Alexander, The ‘Girl Problem’: Female Sexual Delinquency in New York, 1900-1930 (1995); Carl Chinn, They Worked All Their Lives: Women of the Urban Poor in England, 1880-1939 (1988); Mike Dash, “Friedrich Engels’ Irish Muse,” mikedashhistory.com 2013; David W. Gutzke, “Gender, Class, and Public Drinking in Britain During the First World War,” Social History (1994); M.V. [Molly] Hughes, A London Family, 1870-1900 (1946); Henry Mayhew, London Labour and the London Poor (1851); Liza Picard, Victorian London: The Life of A City, 1840-1870 (2005); Judith Walkowitz, City of Dreadful Delight: Narratives of Sexual Danger in Late-Victorian London (1992).
Q: You wrote:
Judith Walkowitz’s influential City of Dreadful Delight, for example, maps the social panics prompted by the “narratives of sexual danger” that warned young, independent Victorian-era women that enjoyment of the city’s pleasures might easily usher them down the path that led to prostitution, pre-marital sex, venereal disease, or alcoholism.
I recently read a paper by Ruth H. Bloch, “Changing Conceptions of Sexuality and Romance in Eighteenth-Century America,” in which she sets out to examine normative rather than transgressive sex and sexuality and how that changes across the century.
To quote her:
Many scholars have focused on the prohibitions or abuse; few have examined the aspirations.
The titles of two of the books you cited hint to me that this is probably an almost universal issue. Sexual delinquency and sexual danger, especially, of course, with regard to women. Are there many sources out there that help to coax out the aspirations of female sexuality in Victorian England? Aside from what might be shouted down from the pulpit, of course.
A: I think that’s a very fair question and Bloch seems to me to be clearly right – though perhaps Walkowitz and Alexander might contend that the cases they are writing about were actually the products of increasing aspirations.
Part of the problem, certainly, is the nature of the sources available. “Female delinquency” resulted in court cases, concerned reports by learned bodies and official enquiries, and of course copious newspaper coverage as well. Very few women wrote about their sexual feelings in this period. Other forms of aspiration (such as Molly Hughes’s – she eventually became one of the most prominent figures in education in London in the early 1900s) leave little trace, and they might also be cut short as well – in Molly’s case she gave everything up to be a wife when she married (entirely willingly, it should be said, though of course her willingness was in itself a product of her upbringing), and went back to work only after the early death of her husband.
We’re reliant on diaries, letters and memoirs, like Molly’s, for much of our information about women’s aspirations when these did not cause them to run foul of the moral and the actual police of the period – and these are conspicuously devoid of information about explicitly sexual aspirations. On top of that, our sources are very heavily biased towards upper and middle class women, which in turn makes them unrepresentative because such women had access to wider (though still very limited) opportunities. One of the very few examples of a working class Victorian woman making a huge success of her own life, and agitating to improve the lives of others, is that of Victoria Woodhull, who in the 1870s became the first woman to run for US President – and it’s very notable that Woodhull had to take at least the first steps along that path by exploiting her great beauty, rather than her impressive brains. The most important reason why Woodhull aroused the widespread condemnation and revulsion that she did was that she was a “sex radical” – meaning a supporter of women’s right to enjoy the same sexual pleasure and sexual experience as a contemporary man. This was a profoundly shocking position to take in the 1870s. I think you might find Joanne Ellen Passet’s Sex Radicals and the Quest for Women’s Equality (2003) especially interesting as a result.
One interesting sidelight on all this is the way in which popular religion and popular protest formed a legitimate outlet for female aspiration. You would probably be interested in studies of the roles that women played in the new spiritualist movement and it is very noticeable, also, how prominent women from less well-off social backgrounds, such as the merely middle class Annie Besant, were in theosophy. Then there was nursing – where the all-too-recently eminent Mary Seacole made her name. A few working class women were also prominent in the women’s suffrage movement, even though the vast majority of suffragists did not think it was feasible to agitate for the vote for women who failed to meet the usual property qualifications (which excluded pretty much the entire working class). But the prominent ones were so rare that they were practically exhibits, used by their better-off colleagues to demonstrate that such aspirations actually existed. The suffragettes of the WSPU, for instance, made a great deal of Annie Kenney, a former mill worker who was the only working class person to feature among their most senior hierarchy.
Finally, one of my favourites of all the things I’ve written is this essay on the experiences of Philippa Fawcett (the daughter of the suffragist leader Millicent Fawcett, and a government minister, so hardly poorly off) in demonstrating conclusively that women were not in fact “fragile, dependent, prone to nerves and—not least—possessed of a mind that was several degrees inferior to a man’s” – which she did by causing international consternation in becoming the only female ever to top the results in Cambridge’s mathematics tripos. It’s possibly the only thing I’ve ever written that is capable of raising goose-bumps.
So you may also find some interesting reading in the following:
Lynn Donald, Mary Seacole: the Making of a Myth (2014)
Amanda Fricksen, Victoria Woodhull’s Sexual Revolution: Political theater and the Popular Press in Nineteenth century America (2004)
Anne Braude, Radical Spirits: Spiritualism and Women’s Rights in Nineteenth Century America(1989)
Annie Kenney, Memoirs of a Militant (1921)
Q: Did British criminals in the 1700s and 1800s really worship a deity called the Tawny Prince? If so, what were the origins of this deity?
Criminals worshiping the Tawny Prince is mentioned briefly in this book on Australian history I’m reading, Commonwealth of Thieves by Thomas Keneally… Googling the Tawny Prince gets me nothing at all.
A: Thomas Keneally’s Commonwealth of Thieves is a popular history of the first years of the British colony in Australia, published in 2006.
Keneally (an Australian who is, of course, best known as a novelist, and as the author of Schindler’s List) uses the term “Tawny Prince” – always with capitals – five times in the course of his book. The most significant mentions are:
“… In Spitalfields to the east, in squalor unimaginable, lived all classes of criminals, speaking a special criminal argot and bonded together by devotion and oath to the criminal deity, the Tawny Prince. The Tawny Prince was honoured by theft, chicanery and a brave death on the gallows…” [p.20]
[Of convicts on their arrival in Australia:] “Not that they were reborn entirely, since they brought their habits of mind and the Tawny Prince, the deity of the London canting crews, with them” [p.81]
[Of a wild celebration in the rain:] “The great Sydney bacchanalia went on despite the thunderstorm. Fists were raised to God’s lightning; in the name of the Tawny Prince and in defiance of British justice, the downpour was cursed and challenged…” [p.89]
All this is referenced, so Keneally did not invent the Tawny Prince, but a little further research does suggest he took a fairly basic reference, elaborated it, embroidered it, and used it to produce a much more solid and distinct figure than the evidence actually warrants. All in the name of good colour, I am sure.
Let’s start with Keneally’s own notes. He cites as his references for a collection of material about the “Tawny Prince” and cant (thieves’ slang) as Watkin Tench’s Sydney’s First Four Years and Captain Grose’s Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue of 1811.
Tench was an officer in the marines who was part of the First Fleet. The book Keneally cites was a 1961 reprint of one originally titled A Narrative of the Expedition to Botany Bay, first published by Debrett in London in 1789. This contains no reference to the Tawny Prince, so in fact Keneally’s only source is Grose (1731-91), an antiquary, whose work (correctly titled Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue) was first published in 1785.
This work does contain a passing reference to the Tawny Prince, not in the form of a separate entry, but rather inserted as a phrase that forms part of a much longer oath supposedly taken by “Gypsies” (a term which Grose uses not to mean “Romani,” but as a synonym for vagrants of all sorts) when “a fresh recruit is admitted into the fraternity.” The relevant extract is the first of several clauses, and is:
“I, Crank Cuffin, do swear to be a true brother, and that I will in all things obey the commands of the great tawney prince, and keep his counsel and not divulge the secrets of my brethren.”
Now, The Routledge Dictionary of Historical Slang confirms that a “crank-cuffin” is an 18th century term for a vagrant feigning sickness, which at least implies that the claimed oath is in the language of the period, but Grose incorporates no commentary at all, so we are left to our own devices in attempting to make sense of the terms and of the passage as a whole.
We can start with the bio of Grose that appears in the Dictionary of National Bibliography, which notes:
From 1783 he published in a torrent to make a living. The Supplement to the Antiquities was resumed, with a greater proportion of views from other artists, particularly S. H. Grimm, and was completed with 309 plates in 1787. This and the main series were reissued in a cheaper edition in 1783–7. A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue (1785) and A Provincial Glossary, with a Collection of Local Proverbs, and Popular Superstitions (1787) were at the time the largest assemblage of ‘non-standard’ words or meanings, about 9000, omitted from Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary; they drew on his fieldwork as far back as the 1750s. The first parts of two other pioneering works appeared in 1786: Military Antiquities and A Treatise on Ancient Armour. Both relied mainly on his specialist library and the armouries at the Tower of London, but also included observations on military music from the 1740s. Of more popular appeal was Rules for Drawing Caricaturas: with an Essay on Comic Painting (1788).
How much further does this get us? The reference to “fieldwork” is intriguing, but it’s balanced by the discussion of a “torrent” of works churned out to make a living, and in fact a careful search shows that Grose’s source was not some vagrant informer, but rather the grammarian James Buchanan’s New Universal Dictionary of 1776, which has an entry for “Gypsies” that contains a fuller version of the same oath that Grose gives, referenced more precisely to what appears to be a description of the Romani people, in which is embedded in a significantly more detailed account of gypsy oath-making. Buchanan, sadly, gives no source for his information or the reference to the “tawney prince”, but his own gloss on the oath as a whole is as follows:
“The Canters have, it seems a Tradition, that from the three first Articles of this Oath, the first Founders of a certain boastful, worshipful Fraternity, who pretend to derive their Origin from the earliest Times, borrowed of them, both the Hint and Form of their Establishment. And that their pretended first derivation from Adam, is a forgery…”
That is as far back as I have been able to trace the term,* but I’m afraid that a more sober consideration of Grose and especially of Buchanan and his gloss indicates that the “great tawny prince” was not some sort of special deity of thieves, in the way that Keneally uses the term, but simply a synonym for the prince of darkness – that is, the devil. (Note, in support of this argument, the lack of capitals in the term “tawney prince” as given by both Grose and Buchanan, and in contradistinction to Keneally’s usage.) I think the inference of the word “tawny” is essentially “animal-like” – with a hide. Although it’s much less common now, 17th and 18th century portrayals of the devil very frequently saw him described as a shape-shifter who could and did assume animal forms, appearing as an ox or a bull, among other disguises. These carried with them implications of physical vigour, lack of restraint, and being placed beyond the order of human society.
We can also check the impressive online collection of trial reports known as The Proceedings of the Old Bailey. This is “a fully searchable edition of the largest body of texts detailing the lives of non-elite people ever published, containing 197,745 criminal trials held at London’s central criminal court” between 1674 and 1913. Although the reports are not literally trial transcripts of everything that was said in every case, but rather court reporters’ summaries of salient points, the most celebrated and interesting trials did receive extensive coverage that included verbatim reporting of some segments. Nowhere in this gigantic criminal word-mine do the terms “Tawny Prince” or “Tawney Prince” appear – so I think we can be certain that the figure imagined by Keneally was not a commonly-evoked deity, or even a figure commonly sworn to, in the whole of this period.
As such, it seems likely that the oath taken is presented not as one sworn to a real “god” of any sort, but rather an inversion of the sort of decent oath an honest Christian might swear by his or her God, in which insertion of mention of the devil actually serves to underline the dastardly and perverted nature of the oath for the dictionary’s intended audience – not thieves, but gentlefolk who, it is intended, will be horrified by it. The idea that thieves and criminals of every stripe were organised into an ordered fraternity that placed itself in distinct opposition to decent society was not only an outrage in itself, but also helped to justify their persecution – which, in this period, before the repeal of the ‘Bloody Code’, was notoriously severe.
* Further research shows the “gypsy” oath does date to a slightly earlier period. A colleague informs me: “The whole inverted-oath and attached gloss goes back at least to Richard Head’s The Canting Academy of 1673. He has it as “great tawny Prince.” Head is most famous as a satirist and fiction writer, so it’s a toss-up that he pastiched the oath together himself.”
Q: How bad would it have smelled in a medieval city?
A: Smell is a problem for historians. The vocabulary that we have to describe smells is much less nuanced than it is for other senses (Gordon, 120); Isidore of Seville divided them very crudely into either “sweet” or “stinking”. Moreover, unlike physical objects, smell leaves no trace of itself to be studied, so we are entirely dependent on written descriptions. And we’re all familiar with the ways in which we quickly become inured to bad smells – smelly rooms cease to stink so badly when we spend some time in them – so it’s very probable that things that would smell very strongly to us, were we to be suddenly exposed to them now, passed largely unnoticed in their time. A good example is garum, the Roman condiment used as freely by them as ketchup is by us. Garum’s main ingredient is putrid fish guts, but the smell, highly offensive to us, was not considered foul by them. Adds Piers Mitchell:
“Some of the nuisances and smells that annoy many modern urban populations were an accepted part of everyday life in ancient cities. People simply had a higher tolerance to the unsanitary conditions of their city, and therefore the rigorous standards of proper waste disposal would seem irrelevant and impossible to reach for those in the past.” (Mitchell, 70).
We can certainly say that medieval people did notice smells and that they described them in terms that ascribed moral dimensions to them. They believed there was such a thing as an “odour of sanctity”, generally described as sweet, like honey; paradise was thought to smell “sweet, like a multitude of flowers”; and the martyrdom of Thomas Becket was “likened to the breaking of a perfume box, suddenly filling Christ Church, Canterbury, with the fragrance of ointment” (Woolgar, 118). But good smells were also temptations (monks were urged to avoid the smells of spices, which would tempt them to demand better food) and when they entered the body, they could be channels for disease (Cockayne, 17). Conversely, bad smells were associated with hypocritical, evil or irreligious behaviour, and those who sinned were assumed to have acquired a stench: Shakespeare’s Gloucester “smells a fault” and later in Lear is thrown out to “smell his way to Dover,” where an enemy army is waiting.
In other words, “defamation had a strong moral odour” (Woolgar, 123); a case brought before the courts at Wisbech in c.1468 involved the insulting of John Sweyn by William Freng, who had called him a “stynkyng horysson”. Allen has some revealing things to say about the medieval attitude to farting: “To smell the intestinal by-product of others brings one into extimate relation with them; more profound than psychoanalysis, it entails a knowledge more intimate than sight or hearing, more detached than touching or licking…. The stink of a fart belongs to a different mode of being.” (Allen, 52-3)
Smell in this period was also closely associated with the concept of miasma – the idea that disease was borne on waves of foul air that were betrayed by their smell. This means we do have evidence that medieval people noticed changes in the levels of smells that they might not otherwise have commented on; there was a case in London in 1421, involving the surreptitious dumping of refuse by one William atte Wode, which tells us a lot about what were then considered the main sources of bad smells in the city – and also that the people of London differentiated between stench and a “wholesome aire” which was
“faire and cleare without vapours and mists… lightsome and open, not dark, troublous and close … not infected with carrian lying long above ground… [nor] stinking and corrupted with ill vapours, as being neere to draughts, sinckes, dunghills, gutters, chanels, kitchings, church-yardes and standing waters.” (Rawcliffe, 124)
With all this said, we can also highlight some of the smells that would have struck us most strongly, have we visited a medieval or early modern city (I include the latter because we have more evidence for them, and changes in the way cities were run were not extensive between the medieval and early modern periods.) In terms of overall sensation, these would include the sulphurous smell of burning coal (Brimblecombe, 9); Green rather imaginatively, but probably fairly, goes further and invokes a “richly layered and intricately woven tapestry of putrid, aching stenches: rotting offal, human excrement, stagnant water,… foul fish, the burning of tallow candles, and an icing of animal dung on the streets.”
In terms of locales, we would notice the smells generated by small scale industry, which was mixed up indiscriminately with living spaces (no industrial parks in those days) – perhaps most especially those created by the slaughterman and butcher (whose work produced a rich stench of blood and excrement), the fuller, the skinner and the tanner. Not a lot of care went into disposing of the by-products of these industries. The dredging of one Cambridge well yielded 79 cat carcasses, dumped there by a local skinner; his preparation of their pelts would have involved treating them with a high-smelling solution of quicklime (Rawcliffe, 206). Tanning – which required the copious use of bodily wastes and the immersion of skins “for long periods in timber lined pits of increasingly noisome liquids… a malodorous combination of oak bark, alum, ashes, lime, saltpetre, faeces and urine” (Rawcliffe, 207) – was widely considered the worst-smelling work of the period. Glue- soap- and candle-making all involved rendering animal fats, and their smells would also have been prominent; soap-makers boiled lime, ash and fat together to make their products (Cockayne, 199). Then there were the smells of cooking and of animals (Ackroyd notes that in the fifteenth century the dog house at London’s Moorgate sent forth “great noyious and infectyve aiers”). The area along the Thames would have added the smell of pitch, used to caulk timbers in the shipbuilding trade (Cockayne, 9).
We would certainly notice the open sewers, such as London’s infamous Fleet Ditch – actually a small river into which nightsoil and industrial byproducts were dumped – which ran directly down the centre of major roads towards the Thames, even though contemporary accounts rarely refer to them unless something happened to make the smells worse than usual. This happened to the Fleet in the 13th century, when the river became so choked with tannery filth that it was no longer navigable above Holborn Bridge (Chalfant, 81). In 1749, a body dragged from the Ditch was initially supposed to be that of a murder victim; it turned out to belong to a man who made his living dragging the sewers for the carcasses of dogs that he could sell to skinners, and who had fallen in by accident (Cockayne, 199)
Different towns would have had their own characteristic smells, based in large part on the nature of local industry. In my own book Tulipomania, I discussed the smells of the Dutch town of Haarlem (a great centre of brewing and linen-dyeing) in the early 17th century:
The city stank of buttermilk and malt, the aromas of its two principal industries: bleaching and beer. Haarlem breweries produced a fifth of all the beer made in Holland, and the town’s celebrated linen bleacheries, just outside the walls, used hundreds gallons of buttermilk a day to dye cloth shipped to the city from all over Europe a dazzling white. The milk filled a series of huge bleaching pits along the west walls, and each evening it was drained off into Haarlem’s moat, and thence into the River Spaarne, dyeing the waters white.
Last, but not least, of course, there were the smells of the human population itself, with its unwashed, decaying or diseased bodies. The lack of dental treatment available in the period meant that most people would have suffered badly from bad breath. At least until the advent of sugar in the diet in early modern period, decay was not as common as it would become – the grain-based diet of the period tended to wear down teeth to flat but regular planes, without leaving crevices in which food could fester. But archaeology reveals extensive evidence of plaque build ups that would have been very noticeable to anyone in close proximity. Dante likens the stench of the hellmouth to the stink of human breath, and Jones notes that in medieval Wales, “a peasant woman could divorce her husband on the grounds of his halitosis.” (Jones and Ereira, 29)
Peter Ackroyd, London: The Biography; Valerie Allen, On Farting: Language and Laughter in the Middle Ages; Peter Brimbelcombe, The Big Smoke: A History of Air Pollution in London; Fran C. Chalfant, Ben Jonson’s London: A Jacobean Placename Dictionary; Emily Cockayne, Hubbub: Filth, Noise and Stench in England; Mike Dash, Tulipomania; Sarah Gordon, Culinary Comedy in French Medieval Literature; Matthew Green, London: A Travel Guide Through Time; Terry Jones and Alan Ereira, Terry Jones’ Medieval Lives; PM Mitchell, Sanitation, Latrines and Intestinal Parasites in Past Populations; Carol Rawcliffe, Urban Bodies: Communal Health in Late Medieval English Towns and Cities; CM Woolgar, The Senses in Late Medieval England
Q: Your points about smelly industries makes me wonder about something: I vaguely recall reading that specifying where tanneries and such could be located was a very early form of city building code. IOW, the people of the time recognized that these tasks were unpleasant and wanted them to be located at a slight remove. Is there any truth to this recollection?
A: There was some regulation – there is evidence from early 14th century Norwich that polluting industries were forced to locate downriver of the main population, and Stanford’s Ordinances of Bristol notes that Bristol soap-boilers so polluted the Avon that they were ordered to halt the practice of throwing waste ash into the waters for fear that it would lead to “the utter decaie and destruction of the same river.” But this was rare and the product of severe and repeated problems. The reality is that small scale change was more often achieved by bringing cases to a court than by pre-emptory law-making.
So Kermode, in Medieval Merchants: York, Beverley and Hull in the Later Middle Ages (p.19) and Schofield and Vince, in their Medieval Towns (p.144), all point out that clear-cut zoning of occupations was not a feature of medieval towns; certain industries did cluster together, as is commonly demonstrated by surviving street names – a study of Ghent shows distinct quarters for carpenters, drapers, mercers, fishmongers and leatherworkers – but this was more a matter of convenience than law-making. The same effects help explain clusters of related industries. Tanners used the bark discarded by carpenters.
That said, the London tanning industry was based largely in Bermondsey, on the far side of the river to most of the city, in part because it was also, notoriously, in a part of town that was much more lightly regulated and policed than the City of London itself. That is why Southwark was also the centre of London’s disreputable (and closely connected) theatre and prostitution industries. Cockayne notes that “location was the cause of some nuisances” – meaning indictments brought because of inconvenience – and that while “all citizens drank beer, used candles, and wore shoes, few wanted to live near a brewer, a chandler, or a tanner.” (Cockayne, 21). In Manchester, “leet juries” had the power to hear cases involving “noysome” – meaning smelly – inconveniences.
Incidentally, the word noisome itself is a contraction of “annoysome”.
Q: Was it likely that garum smelt particularly worse than modern Thai/Vietnamese fish sauce, or even Worcestershire Sauce? Both are made from fermented fish.
A: The best garum was made from the guts of rotten mackerel. The bones were taken out and the flesh and fish blood was mashed up together and poured into a large amphora. A layer of strong-tasting herbs like dill, mint and oregano was tipped on top, then lots of salt – ‘two finger lengths’, one recipe said, which is about 12cm. The Romans added more layers of fish, herbs and salt until the jar was full. Then they left it lying in the hot sun for a week until the fish had gone off and was pretty rank.
After that, the mixture was stirred every day for three weeks, before it was sieved and the fish sauce was sent to Rome, where it fetched high prices.
On this basis one might suppose garum was better smelling than South East Asian fish sauces, which don’t usually contain herbs. It would depend on how you feel about the smell of mackerel compared to the smell on anchovy, the typical ingredient in a Thai fish sauce. Both are oily fishes, so perhaps it’s not too different. The Roman method, which left the fermenting fish lying around in an amphora, likely created stronger concentrations of smell than the Asian method, in which fermentation takes place inside a sealed barrel.
The best garum came from Barcelona in Spain. The factories that made it smelled so bad that they had to be built miles away from the nearest houses. Ordinary Romans were banned from making garum in their own homes because the stench was so awful the neighbours tended to complain.
Q: What exactly were the relics on which Harold Godwinson swore his oath to William of Normandy?
A: The exact nature of the relics is not specified in the most reliable contemporary sources. According to Orderic Vitalis – an Anglo-French monk who was writing more than half a century later, but who had been brought up in a Norman monastery – Harold swore on super sanctissimus reliquias juraverat, generally translated as “very sacred saint’s relics”. Anglo-Saxon sources from the 1060s are completely silent on the subject, however, and it’s as possible to argue that the entire story of Harold’s oath was an invention of the Norman propaganda machine, used to justify William’s invasion, as it is to suppose that the Saxon chronicles deliberately suppressed an incident discreditable to one of their own. Elizabeth van Houts, in her 1992 edition of William of Jumieges’s Gesta Normannorum Ducum, argues that the entire story is based on a single, official, Norman account, drawn up to be presented to the Pope in order to justify and seek approval for the invasion. Even Norman sources suggest there was an element of deception involved – that Harold only realised too late the holyness of the oath he’d sworn because the presence of the relics was concealed from him.
That said, some later sources are more specific. The Brevis Relatio, written by a monk of Battle Abbey around 1130, the Warenne Chronicle (about 1157) and Wace (a canon at Bayeux), writing after 1155, say one of the reliquaries was the “ox eye” or “bull’s eye”. Wace’s passage says that William “ordered that all the holy relics be assembled in one place, having an entire tub filled with them; then he ordered them covered with a silk cloth so that Harold neither knew about them nor saw them, nor was it pointed out to him. On top of it he placed a reliquary, the finest he could choose and the most precious he could find; I have heard it called ‘ox-eye’.” Apparently this was because the centre of the reliquary was an elaborate mounting for a magnificent gemstone.
If this identification is accepted then the relics may have been those of St Pancras, which the Warenne Chronicle explicitly identifies with the ox-eye reliquary. Pancras, a Roman citizen of Diocletian’s reign, was especially venerated in England because St Augustine had been despatched from Rome bearing some of his relics when he was sent to convert the Saxons. However, the cult of St Pancras was unknown in Normandy, which perhaps suggests that Warenne was wrong, and implies that it was more likely that any oath was sworn on locally venerated relics.
If so, then much depends on where exactly an oath may have been sworn. There is no agreement on this point. Orderic says Rouen, William of Poitiers says Bonneville-sur-Toques, and the Bayeux Tapestry puts it in Bayeux. Stephen D. White, in his “Locating Harold’s oath and tracing his itinerary” in Pastan and White [eds] The Bayeux Tapestry and its Contexts, takes this latter identification and uses it to suggest that the most likely candidate is the bones of Saints Rasyphus and Ravennus. He argues that Duke William’s brother, Bishop Odo of Bayeux, is known to have commissioned a new reliquary to hold these c.1050 which can be identified with the image of the reliquary shown on the Bayeux Tapestry.
However, Odo’s name is not associated with this stage of the tapestry narrative, meaning it’s difficult to establish who exactly selected the reliquaries for any oath that was sworn. There’s no way to be certain, but if the incident occurred, and if it occurred at Bayeux, then most likely Odo would have been involved. As such, White’s identification, while it must be considered tentative, is certainly not implausible.
Q: I remember reading David C. Douglas’s “William the Conqueror” and one line stood out. I’m paraphrasing since it’s been about eight years since I read it and a quick look through the book was unsuccessful in finding the exact quote, but it was something like, “There can be no doubt [Harold Godwinson’s oath to William] was genuine.” My immediate thought was “wait, what, it sounded like total bullshit made up by the Normans.”
What is the current historical consensus (or majority view) as to whether or not Harold ever swore an oath of loyalty to William?
A: There’s no question that Harold’s visit to Normandy, and the oath-swearing ceremony in which he vowed to support William’s claim to the English throne, are accepted by pretty much 100% of the authorities on this period – in fact the paper I linked to above is the only one I can recall reading that absolutely dismisses the idea. Other authorities question the veracity of Norman accounts of events, to varying degrees, but not that the events took place.
While it’s true that no contemporary Anglo-Saxon source mentions a visit by Harold to Normandy, and while I personally share your instinctive scepticism about the traditional account of events, it was therefore a little bit glib of me to imply that the two possibilities (there was a visit and an oath-swearing, there wasn’t) are equally probable. Let’s review the evidence as it’s generally set out.
 Could Harold have visited Normandy?
Saxon sources are silent about Harold’s whereabouts and activities between the conclusion of his campaign in Wales in 1063 and July 1065, when he is recorded as giving orders for the construction of a new hunting lodge at Portskewet to replace one lost in the course of a Welsh raid. Norman sources give no exact date for the supposed visit, but William of Poitiers places it at about the time of William’s acquisition of the county of Maine, which was complete by 1064. So there’s a sufficiently large hole in Harold’s known itinerary for the visit to have taken place at the time that Norman sources suggest it did. We have to conclude it’s possible he did travel to Normandy in 1064.
 How plausible is it that Harold could have gone to Normandy without leaving any trace in the contemporary record?
Perfectly plausible. We know this because Harold also made a visit to Flanders in 1056 which likewise left no trace in English sources. We only know about it because he witnessed a diploma drawn up in Flanders that year that has, fortuitously, survived. In addition, assuming that some ceremony in which Harold promised to support William’s claim to the English throne did take place, albeit under duress, Harold would have had no motive for broadcasting his actions when he returned home. There is one tiny fragment of evidence that suggests the Anglo-Saxon polity may have been aware of an oath-taking ceremony prior to the Conquest; this is a passage in the Vita Eadwardii Regis (a life/hagiography of Edward the Confessor) that observes that Harold was “rather too generous with his oaths (alas!)” But even if this gnomic comment refers to Harold’s Norman visit – and Frank Barlow prefers to interpret it as suggesting that Harold, unlike his brother Tostig “had the ‘smoothness’ of their father,” Earl Godwin – the VER was probably not completed until 1067 and the sole manuscript of it that we have appears to date to c.1100. We can’t rule out the insertion of a comment intended to win favour with the new king.
 What motive would Harold have had for visiting Normandy?
Four have been suggested.
The first is that he didn’t intend to go the France at all, but was caught in a storm while at sea in the English Channel. (This is first suggested by a late but very highly-regarded source, William of Malmesbury. As for what reason he might have had for being at sea … Malmesbury says a fishing expedition, and the Bayeux Tapestry’s rendition of this part of the story features a line of thread that has been interpreted as a fishing rod. If true, this would make this the sole reference to a high English noble engaging in fishing as a sport, rather than the more conventional hunting or falconry.) A Scandinavian source, King Harald’s Saga, also says bad weather, though it suggests Harold had been caught while sailing for Wales. Whether any of this is truth, it’s at least highly plausible to suppose that Harold had not intended to go to Normandy, as opposed to elsewhere in what’s now France, for reasons that I will discuss below.
The second relates to another odd reference in the VER: that Harold was engaged in a study of the “princes of Gaul” and “noted down most carefully what he could get from them if he ever needed their services in any of his projects.” This has been interpreted as meaning he possibly undertook an expedition in search of a marriage alliance for one of his daughters, or perhaps a similar journey on behalf of his king.
The third is that he went to secure the freedom of two relatives – one of them his nephew, Hacon – who had been held hostage by Duke William since 1052. This is the view of the Canterbury chronicler Eadmer, writing in c.1100, but since it means that Harold would have willingly placed himself at the mercy of Duke William to secure the freedom of people whom he had apparently made no effort to get freed in the years 1052-64, I find this implausible.
The last is the official Norman view: that Harold was sent by Edward to confirm his promise of his throne to William. This last is also, I believe, highly unlikely, for three reasons. First, the throne was not entirely within the gift of the childless Edward; confirmation of an “outsider” candidate such as William would, at minimum, have required the approval of the Saxon witan, and Harold himself, it can very plausibly be supposed, would have vehemently opposed it – since it would very likely have resulted in a sharp fall in his personal power and prosperity. Second, when Edward wanted to name Edward (and later Edgar) Ætheling as his heir, he had him brought back to England, where he could be presented to the entire Saxon nobility; had he really wanted William to be accepted as his heir, it would have made more sense for William to be brought to England to meet the whole Saxon leadership than it would for one Saxon earl to travel to Normandy. Third, while the idea that there was a set line of succession is anachronistic in this period, it’s clear that Edward’s nephew, the ætheling Edgar – grandson of Edmund Ironside – was generally accepted as his heir at this point, and in fact had been brought back with his (by now deceased) father from exile in Hungary specifically to fill the role of heir apparent. It was only the timing of the Confessor’s death, which occurred when Edgar was still aged only about 14, too young to lead an army in battle, that made it possible for Harold to seize the throne in the extraordinary circumstances of 1066.
 What motive would Duke William have had for requiring Harold to swear an oath?
In my view, it’s here that the main conventional accounts of the oath-swearing ceremony break down. The purpose of the ceremony is quite clearly stated in the Norman sources to have been for William to secure Harold’s backing for his claim to be heir apparent to Edward’s throne. For William to have wanted to secure Harold’s support in this way makes perfect sense in light of what happened in 1066 – that is, it makes sense if we assume it went ahead on the basis that the Confessor would die in circumstances that made it possible for Harold to seize the throne for himself, and hence in circumstances that [i] made William’s claim much easier to press and [ii] made it necessary for him to dispose of Harold as a rival claimant. It makes very little sense in the circumstances that actually existed in 1064, when Edgar was very clearly the most obvious candidate for the throne – and, moreover, one whose recall from Hungary post-dated the supposed promise from Edward that William based his claim to the throne on.
To clarify this last point: Edward the Confessor certainly had pro-Norman sympathies. His mother was Norman and, during the period of Danish supremacy in England (the reigns of Cnut, Harold Harefoot and Harthacnut, 1016-1042), he had been sheltered at the Norman court. William’s claim was based on a promise Edward had supposedly made in c.1051-2, at the time of the fall of Harold’s father, Godwin, from royal favour. It is generally supposed that any such promise would have been engineered by, and made in the presence of, the Norman archbishop of Canterbury, Robert of Jumièges, prior to Robert’s deposition and exile at the behest of the resurgent Godwin family in 1052. Again, the very existence of such a promise is disputed, but if it had been made we can certainly say [i] that Edward had no absolute authority to make it and [ii] that, however much he did so under compulsion, it must have been effectively superseded or withdrawn by events post-1052, when Godwin was restored to his position as the chief power behind the throne. Given that the invasion of England from Normandy was an entirely unprecedented event, one that required the construction of a huge navy from scratch and that William’s barons apparently thought unfeasible, it would have made very little sense for William to assume that getting Harold’s support, via an oath sworn under compulsion – since, if Harold was in Normandy in 1064, he was effectively William’s prisoner there – would have helped much to cement a claim that would have set William against a legitimate member of the Saxon royal house, a close relative of the king, whose claim was acknowledged by the whole country (and de facto by the pope) at this time.
For me, such an action only makes sense in the context of William’s need to secure papal support for a claim made in the face of Harold’s kingship, not Edgar’s. That’s my main reason for suspecting that the oath-swearing was an invention of the Norman propaganda machine in 1066, not something that would plausibly have taken place in 1064. It is not impossible that a man as ambitious as William would have been willing to attempt an invasion of England in support of a claimed promise dating back to the early 1050s, and in face of the accession of an older Edgar Ætheling. But it seems highly doubtful he could have carried the papacy and his barons with him easily in order to assert such a claim. If he knew that then forcing an oath-taking ceremony on Harold makes comparatively little sense.
 Why are historians of the late Saxon and early Norman period so willing to support the oath-taking accounts given by Norman chroniclers?
Essentially, as Harold’s recent biographer Ian W. Walker puts in in his Harold: The Last Anglo-Saxon King (p.105) because they feel that Norman accounts “must have a basis in truth, otherwise their authors would lose [he means would have lost, at the time] credibility completely.” To believe this, you need to believe that [i] the true events of 1064 and the oath-swearing ceremony were widely known in the period 1066-1100, and [ii] that public credibility (in the very limited sense of credibility among the audience of likely readers of these manuscript chronicles) mattered more to chroniclers such as William of Jumièges and William of Poitiers than the favour of King William. I would respond that there is no evidence of general awareness of an oath-swearing ceremony in this period – much less of any willingness on the part of those who were familiar with it to challenge the version mandated by the man who had become one of the most powerful rulers of his age – and that both chroniclers were intimately associated with William and his court, and therefore highly unlikely to care about anything as much as they cared about retaining William’s favour. This undoubtedly made them potential, if not actual, mouthpieces for Norman propaganda, including the oath-taking story.
Tl;dr Historical consensus strongly favours the reality of the oath-taking story, but there are, nonetheless, reasons to doubt it is correct.
Q: What prompted the first emperor of Qin to have hundreds of scholars buried alive and their works burned? If history was the primary concern, what interpretations and narratives was he trying to suppress? Was live burial a “normal” punishment or an exceptional one, to make an example?
A: There are several points to consider here, and I will try to cover them one by one.
First, the general idea of live burial was not an invention of the First Emperor. More than 1,200 sacrificial burials dating to the Shang dynasty have been excavated at Xibeigsang alone, and these include “a few children who seem to have been trussed up and buried alive.” A second set of live burials – both men and women – dating to the Warring States period has been uncovered at Langjiazhuang. This type of burial is termed “human offerings” by Chinese archaeologists, as distinct from the “companions in death”, typically young women, who were dignified with their own burials. Both types of burial seem to have involved the executions of wives, slaves or attendants who were to accompany some eminent dynast or court official into the afterlife.
In addition, Chinese chronicles record that during the latter years of the Warring States period, not long before the First Emperor’s birth, the survivors of a Zhao army that had invaded the state of Qin, but been surrounded and starved into submission, were supposedly “buried alive” en masse by Bo Qi (AKA Bao Qi), the military genius who played a major part in setting up the eventual victory of Qin and the First Emperor over its rival states [Cambridge History of Ancient China I, 193, 640, 734].
This is the closest we get to an example of burial alive apparently being used as an exemplary punishment before Qin Shihuangdi’s time, but there is a vitally important caveat that applies both to Bo Qi’s atrocity and the deaths of 460 scholars in 212 BC that Sima Qian records, in his the Records of the Grand Historian, were ordered by the First Emperor. This relates to the correct way to translate “k’eng“, the word use to describe the deaths of both the scholars and the men of the defeated Zhao army. In its noun form, k’eng means “pit” and it is for this reason that it has been understood since at least the 16th century to mean “buried” or even “buried alive.” However, both Emmanuel-Edouard Chavannes and Timoteus Pokora have convincingly argued that it should be translated to mean only “to destroy” or “to put to death”; hence there has to be considerable doubt as to whether any scholars were buried alive in the First Emperor’s reign at all. This is not an insignificant point, since the extreme nature of the punishment is integral to the way in which the First Emperor has typically been viewed both by later Chinese chroniclers (who of course could readily imagine themselves suffering similar fates) and by modern historians. [Chavannes, Les Mémoires historiques de Se-ma Ts’ien traduits et annotés, II, 119; for Pokora’s views see Archiv Orientální 31 (1963), 170-1.]
Second, if we go back to the works of Sima Qian, it becomes clear that the idea of burning books, if not that of executing scholars, was not the First Emperor’s, but rather a policy that was urged on him by his chancellor and chief advisor Li Si (Li Ssu in the old Wade-Giles system of transliteration).
The sequence of events as set out by Sima Qian is that a number of Confucian “scholars of wide learning” attended an imperial banquet held at Qin Shihuangdi’s palace in 213. One of these dared to criticise the Emperor for not following the example of Shang and Zhou emperors in giving fiefs to his sons and to “meritorious ministers,” a policy that, it was intimated, was crucial to the maintenance of these earlier dynasties. Li Si responded angrily that the “stupid literati” did not understand that things had changed and that “now the world has been pacified, laws and ordinances issue from one source alone.” Criticism of “the present age” would only “confuse and excite the ordinary people,” leading to a decline in imperial power. “It is expedient that these [criticisms] be prohibited,” he concluded.
The practical upshot of Li Si’s recommendation was an order that all the relevant records in the imperial record bureau be burned, that any public discussion of the two most important, the poems of the Book of Songs and the chronicles and collections of speeches contained in the Book of Documents, be punishable by death. Furthermore, Li Si urged that orders be given that all copies of the prohibited works that existed outside the immediate control of the imperial government be burned within 30 days.
This order applied specifically to works of history, custom and law. Works relating to divination, agriculture, medicine and forestry were excluded from the edict. Moreover, even copies of the forbidden works were authorised to be preserved within the archives of the Bureau of Academicians. The purpose of the order that interests you, therefore, was explicitly to prevent unrest and not to utterly destroy knowledge, nor, as is sometimes supposed, to establish a Pol Pot style “Year Zero” for a new period of Chinese history, beyond which future historians would not be able to penetrate. It was possession and discussion of the forbidden works by scholars who were beyond the immediate control of the state (unlike those manning the Bureau of Academicians) that Li Si really objected to.
Most scholars suppose that the edict remained in place for no more than about five years (though it was not formally rescinded until 191) and hence that the loss and destruction of old texts was less than total. Nonetheless, if only by drastically limiting the number of copies of ancient works that actually survived, the impact of the decree was considerable. Many of the archived works would have been destroyed when Han armies burned the Qin palaces at Xianyang in 206 BC. It’s worth pointing out, however, that this sort of attrition has been a normal feature of Chinese history. We have a catalogue of the Han imperial library as it existed in the first years of the first century (more than two hundred years after the First Emperor’s time), for example; of the 677 works listed, three-quarters are now lost to us.
As for the “execution of the literati”: that took place one year after the infamous burning of their books and, according to Sima Qian, for a different reason. Its proximate cause was the First Emperor’s infamous determination to keep his movements hidden, which the Grand Historian attributed to the advice of the magician Master Lu, who was brought in to assist the Emperor in his search for an elixir of immortality. One consequence of this was that the emperor would have anyone known to have revealed his whereabouts put to death.
On one visit to the east coast, Qin Shihuangdi was angered to note the large numbers of carriages and attendants surrounding Li Si – these, he felt, clearly represented a risk that his whereabouts would be disclosed and the magical forces needed to secure the desired elixir dissipated. This news reached the ears of the chancellor, who, fearing the Emperor’s wrath, took immediate steps to reduce their numbers. When Qin Shihuangdi realised that there had to be an informer among his attendants, he had the entire group who had been with him at the time executed.
This drastic action, in turn, prompted unrest among Master Lu and the scholars who associated with him. Lu and several other magicians clearly feared they might be next and fled – taking with them the Emperor’s chief hope of attaining eternal life. Qin Shihuangdi ordered an immediate inquiry into how and why Lu and his helpers had been able to flee, and when the other scholars in his entourage blamed one another, he had 460 of them selected for execution. In this case, therefore, the “scholars” we hear so much about were likely Daoists, alchemists and magicians rather than court historians or academics.
[Main sources for the discussion above: Derek Bodde, “The state and empire of Ch’in,” in The Cambridge History of China I, 69-72; Frances Wood, The First Emperor of China pp.40-5, 78-88.]
With regard to the follow-up question on sources: Sima Qian’s Records are indeed the most significant resource for the reign of the First Emperor. They are important not only because they are the only detailed source we have for much of what happened, but because they were compiled free of much of the inbuilt bias that bedevils later Chinese historiography. As the Cambridge History of China puts it (I, 972):
As yet they were not bound by the inhibitions under which their successors labored. They were not required to display their masters as paragons of fine behavior, whose predecessors had rightly deserved destruction. As yet they were not obliged to portray the past in terms of the steady influence exerted on mankind by the force of Confucian teaching.
[Such characteristics first emerged with full force in histories of the remarkable usurper Wang Mang, whose highly controversial reign at around the time of Christ separates the Former from the Late Han; I discuss these problems in more detail here.]
Two other important sources do exist, however. The first is the Han su or Book of Han, a chronicle of the Former Han Dynasty, modelled on the style established by Sima Qian and covering the period 206 BC to AD 5 in 12 volumes. This work is late – completed c. AD 111 – but its early coverage deals with the overthrow of the Qin dynasty and some of the people who figure in it were important in the First Emperor’s reign.
The second source that needs to be considered is archaeological and numismatic evidence – most obviously the imperial tomb from which the famous Terracotta Warriors have been unearthed, but also numerous lesser archaeological sites – most notably record steles – and coin finds.
Good sources of detailed information on the historiography of the period include Van der Loon’s “The ancient Chinese chronicles and the growth of historical ideals,” in Beasley & Pulleyblank’s Historians of China and Japan, and Michael Loewe [ed], Early Chinese Texts: A Bibliographical Guide.
Q: Could you please also comment on several recent discoveries of Qin period bamboo slips? To what extent did these newly discovered texts change our perspective on Shihuangdi and his empire?
A: There are two such discoveries, I believe: one a set of material from a Qin era tomb in Hubei, which total 11,000 strips, comprising 10 distinct texts, including some Qin statutes; the other a cache of 36,000 strips found in a well in Hunan.
The Hunan strips are curse official documents produced by low level officials in the district. They can tell us something about the local organisation of the Qin state – for example, the details of its postal service, its document styles and its bureaucracy, and their dating also fills in some things we did not know about the Qin calendar. The Hubei strips tell us more about the operations of the Qin state at a slightly higher level. They reveal many hitherto unknown details about Qin administration, its requirements, and its accounting practices. Also included in the latter collection are some biographical annotations concerning the magistrate in whose tomb the slips were laid, and a complete divination almanac showing the best days for making sacrifices, digging wells and so forth.
Broadly, we can say that the two collections are helpful in understanding everyday life in the Qin period, but they do not reveal much about the top level workings of the Qin government or the doings of the First Emperor. As such, they fit more into the continuum of Chinese social and economic history than they illuminate the distinct political upheaval caused by Qin Shihuangdi.
Q: Were the pyramids still kept in repair at the time of Cleopatra?
A: We have only a little information about the state of Egyptian structures in the late Pharaonic/Roman period, so it’s difficult to be precise as to the state of repair of the pyramids – or any other Egyptian monuments – at this time. However, the short answer to your question is that, at least while Egypt retained some independence, occasional restoration work was done on some monuments, usually for religious/magical reasons to do with aiding souls that had already passed into the afterlife. For this reason, Pharaonic restoration work tended to involve erecting new inscriptions rather than making extensive repairs to old monuments.
Even this work seems to have largely ended by the time Egypt passed under Roman control (at least we have no evidence of its continued practice), and the Graeco-Roman period is often considered to mark the start of “tourism” to Egpyt. Certainly it was in this period that many of the monuments famous today first seem to have been visited on a regular basis simply because they were remarkable sights.
That’s the summary; here are a few salient details:
- We do know that Egyptians completed some repairs to the sphinx soon before the reign of Thutmosis IV began in about 1420 B.C. The monument was then almost buried in sand (as it later would be again), and Thutmosis, who was one of the then pharaoh’s sons but not actually in line to succeed him, had it excavated and built a retaining wall to prevent it sanding up again too easily. His workmen also re-secured some blocks from its back in their proper places. This was not, however, a typical thing for an Egyptian ruler to do; we know from the so-called “Dream Stele” left at the site that Thutmosis’s motive for the restoration was that he had had a dream in which the sphinx promised him he would become pharaoh if he would restore it.
- Later, in the reign of Ramesses II (c.1280 B.C.) the two main pyramids at Giza appear to have undergone some restoration. This work is attributed to Ramesses’ som Khaemwaset, who added hieroglyphic inscriptions to monuments at Giza, Saqqara and Dashur. Although Khaemwaset is sometimes called “the first Egyptologist,” these additions had explicitly religious functions; although a contemporary inscription records that the prince “loved antiquity and his noble ancestors,” and could not bear to see old monuments fall to ruin, his texts were created because they “literally renewed the memory of those buried within, benefitting their spirits in the afterlife,” Manassa notes.
Possibly associated with this same period is evidence from within the Great Pyramid of limited repair and replastering work that hardly fits the MO of the typical tomb robber. It’s not possible to date this but it’s usually attributed to the Pharaonic period.
- About a century later, during the 12th Dynasty, a ruler named Khnumhotep set up an inscription (first transcribed by Percy Newberry in 1890-1) which imply some Pharaonic-style conservation work took place in this period. His inscription boasted: “I caused the names of my fathers which I had found destroyed upon the doors to live again…”
- At some point during the Middle Kingdom, at the height of the Cult of Osiris, the royal tombs at Abydos were excavated in search of Osiris’s tomb. When the diggers uncovered the First Dynasty tomb of Djet, they took it to be the deity’s resting place and so restored it, building a new roof and an access stairway.
- In the Third Intermediate and Late Periods, older monuments were studied so that their styles could be replicated in new buildings. Some dilapidated temples were restored at this time. The work was not extensive however and with the decline of the state funds for restoration probably weren’t available in any case. Thompson states that “by the Roman period, Egypt was little more than a mass of ruins.” What survived was generally that which had been built most solidly – not least, of course, the pyramids.
- Both Strabo (writing within 6 years of Cleopatra’s death, in 24 B.C.) and Diodorus Siculus give accounts of the Great Pyramid that imply they personally visited the site and were taken around it by local guides, who told them stories about its construction. Diodorus, who visited in around 50 B.C., writes in chapter 64 of his Universal History of the Great Pyramid that he saw “the entire structure undecayed” – though it would be unwise to assume this was a careful description.
- That’s not least because Roman era graffiti was found inside the Great Pyramid early in the 19th century, written in soot on the roof of the subterranean chamber, which again strongly suggests that the pyramid was open to at least some visitors at this time; that the pyramid’s Descending Passage was left open, not sealed, argues against the idea that the local people were keeping the monuments “in repair” in Cleopatra’s time, and might suggest they no longer considered them sacred in this period, several centuries after the arrival of dynasties of Greek rulers.
- We also know that Romans often visited other Egyptian sites to see their wonders – popular destinations include Armana, Abydos, Hatshepsut’s mortuary temple, Karnak and the Valley of the Kings. Unfortunately all we have in these cases are inscriptions, not accounts of what exactly these sites looked like at the time. But again this argues against Pharaonic monuments being considered sacred and inviolate in this period.
- There are numerous other Graeco-Roman grafitti on various Egyptian monuments, perhaps most famously on the plinths and legs of the pair of sandstone colossi commemorating Amenhotep III (reigned c.1350 B.C.) near Luxor that are popularly known as the Colossi of Memnon. One of these statues was felled by an earthquake in 27 B.C., only three years after Cleopatra’s death, and it was after that occurred that the statue famously began to emit an unusual sound, said to have been like the string of a broken lyre, soon after sun-up on some mornings. Largely thanks to this phenomenon, the Colossi acquired a reputation as an oracle. Because of the fame thus acquired, and the graffitti left by visitors, we know something of their history around this time and it’s clear that while the damaged statue was not immediately repaired, the fallen portions were replaced about 200 years later – a restoration popularly ascribed to Septimus Severus, who visited the statues but failed to hear the sound shortly before 200 A.D.
Thomas W. Africa, “Herodotus and Diodorus in Egypt,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 22 (1963); Colleen Manassa, Imagining the Past: Historical Fiction in New Kingdom Egypt; Maria Swetnam-Burland, Egypt in the Roman Imagination; Jason Thompson, Wonderful Things: A History of Egyptology 1: From Antiquity to 1881