James Cook: The Voyages: at the British Library - by Sue Purkiss

This August, it will be 250 years since James Cook's first voyage to the southern seas. As the introduction to this exhibition states: 'In 1768 the coasts and islands of the pacific, although inhabited for thousands of years, were largely unknown to Europeans. Cook made three voyages and when the third returned to Britain in 1780 most of the blank spaces on European maps had been filled in. Cook's voyages have been celebrated, but also sometimes condemned, ever since.'

Cook's chart of Botany Bay

This points to a difficulty. If you'd looked Cook up in an encyclopaedia when I was a child, it would have told you that he was a hero, a great explorer, who discovered hitherto unknown lands. (A couple of years ago, in a fit of manic decluttering, I got rid of just such a set of encylclopaedias. If I hadn't, I'd be able to quote the appropriate entry to you. There's a lesson there...)

Now, it doesn't look quite that simple.

Cook's first voyage, with the Endeavour, was purportedly to observe the Transit of Venus (now there's a title for a book!) across the face of the sun at Tahiti (or Otaheite, as he knew it), in June 1769. But he also had secret Admiralty orders to search for land in the south Pacific, including the Great Southern Continent, if it indeed existed. If he found land, he was 'to cultivate a Friendship and Alliance' with its inhabitants, to chart its coastline and to investigate its potential in terms of trade. Further, he was 'to take possession of Convenient Situations in the Country in the name of the King of Great Britain' - albeit with the consent of the inhabitants.

Cook and his ship

On that first voyage, he took with him as a naturalist the young Joseph Banks. I've written about Banks in various History Girl posts, and he features in my recent book for children about plant hunting, Jack Fortune and the Search for the Hidden Valley - he was a fascinating and very influential character. He was also tall, handsome, genial, and one of those charismatic people who gets on very well with everybody - whereas Cook was more dour and introverted: they made a good team. So when it came to getting the 'consent of the inhabitants', Banks was a great help. Certainly in Otaheite he threw himself into socialising with the (mostly) welcoming inhabitants with great gusto. He became good friends with Tupaia, the chief priest of the island - so much so that Tupaia asked to accompany the Endeavour when it was time for the visitors to continue their voyage, and did so as a translator and interpreter. Tupaia also drew and painted scenes from their travels, some of which are displayed at the exhibition, alonside many other contemporary images, artefacts, letters and journals. Sadly, both Tupaia and his young son, Tayeto, died when, on the way back to England, after various adventures in Australia and New Zealand, the ship docked at Batavia for repairs: unfortunately Batavia was rife with fever, and almost half of the company, including the two Tahitians, succumbed.

And the exhibition doesn't shy away from revealing that, although Cook was indeed a great explorer who achieved an enormous amount for his country, there was another side to what he did. The lives of the people he 'discovered' were not just touched by his arrival on their shores: they were to be changed forever, even when the intentions of the explorers were good. Tupaia and his son were one example. Another concerns a later voyage, when Cook, meaning to be helpful, presented the Maoris in New Zealand with domesticated animals - sheep, pigs etc. He thought it would make life easier for them if they didn't have to hunt for their food. But the animals had a huge effect on the indigenous flora and fauna, leading to the extinction of a number of native species.

And it was Banks who suggested that Australia would be a good place for a penal colony - which on the one hand led to the creation of modern Australia, but on the other to the near-destruction of the indigenous Aborigine culture.

Tupaia's drawing of Sir Joseph Banks trading with a Maori - a piece of cloth in exchange for a lobster.

It's such a difficult subject; it's so easy to look at events at that time through 21st century eyes. (I dread to think what inhabitants of the earth in the 24th century might think of some of the things that are going on around the world at the moment.) But I think that the British Library exhibition succeeds brilliantly at celebrating Cook's achievements, while at the same time re-evaluating them to take into account the effect of his 'discoveries' on the lives of those he 'discovered'. The objects on display are interspersed with video interviews with modern descendants of those peoples, and they make sobering listening. Yet the message in the end was, I felt, a nuanced one: that, to paraphrase, we are where we are: but we must take account of how we got there, and not pretend that exploitation didn't take place: we must respect not only the 'discoverers', but also the 'discovered'. The exhibition helps towards that - not least by giving us an insight into the lives and cultures of the peoples of the southern and other seas at the time that Cook first encountered them.

You can find out more about the exhibition on the British Library website, here.

Magna Carta: Law, Liberty, Legacy by Tanya Landman

For anyone who’s even vaguely interested in history or politics Magna Carta: Law, Liberty, Legacy is a fascinating exhibition. For a historical novelist, it’s an inspiration.

http://www.bl.uk/events/magna-carta--law-liberty-legacy

I’d heard about it on the radio and was itching to see it, so when Mary Hoffman passed on an invitation for a History Girl to attend a private view I grabbed it. Travelling up to London I was ridiculously excited. There’s something magical about seeing historical documents and artefacts in the flesh – no reproduction, however good can convey the thrill of the real thing. And this was the Magna Carta. THE MAGNA CARTA!!! I’d been taught about it in Primary School. Bad King John who ‘shamed the throne that he sat on.’ King versus barons, democracy versus tyranny. The triumph of the People’s rights, cornerstone of the British constitution.




And yet, of the 63 original clauses, only three remain on the statute book today. One defends the freedom of the English church, another the liberties of London and other towns. The third is the most famous –
No free man shall be seized or imprisoned, or stripped of his rights or possessions, or outlawed or exiled, or deprived of his standing in any other way, nor will we proceed with force against him, or send others to do so, except by the lawful judgement of his equals or by the law of the land.
To no one will we sell, to no one deny or delay right or justice.
In Medieval England ‘free men’ were actually an elite minority but that concept of universal justice was hugely powerful and has inspired lawyers, politicians and activists (including Nelson Mandela) ever since. Chief Justice Lord Bingham wrote, “the significance of Magna Carta lay not only in what it actually said, but in what later generations claimed and believed it had said.”

Curators Julian Harrison and Claire Breay and researcher Alex Lock are to be congratulated on creating a narrative that leads us from the granting of the charter in 1215 right up to the present day.
There are excellent reviews that give an overview of the exhibition here

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/art/11459576/Magna-Carta-Law-Liberty-Legacy-British-Library-review-rich-and-authoritative.html

http://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2015/mar/12/magna-carta-exhibition-lessons-modern-politics-peoples-rights


However, I’m coming at it from a different angle and taking an author’s eye view.

At every school or library visit I can guarantee someone will ask, “Where do you get your ideas from?” I reply that I’m like a magpie, constantly on the lookout for bright little nuggets of information. And then there are the holes in history, the gaps that can be filled with ‘what-ifs?’ and ‘maybes...’ and ‘just supposes..?’ In Magna Carta: Law, Liberty, Legacy there’s material to fill several volumes. I’ll concentrate on just three that sparked off novel ideas.








First of all was a striking statue of one of the barons - Geoffrey FitzGeoffrey de Mandeville. A small label states that he was deeply in debt to King John after paying £13,333 for the right to marry the monarch’s first wife.

My brain started ticking right away. Geoffrey married the king’s ex-wife? King and queen were divorced? Why? How? What happened? I was so intrigued that I looked her up as soon as I got home.

It was Henry II who arranged the betrothal between Isabel (or Isabella) of Gloucester and his son John, but only after Henry had disinherited Isabel’s two sisters and declared she was sole heir to Gloucester. The couple were married, but as they were distant cousins the Archbishop of Canterbury declared the marriage null and void. The Pope granted a dispensation but banned them from having sexual relations.

When John came to the throne in 1199 he almost immediately obtained an annulment of the marriage. He did, however, keep Isabel’s land and property and retained the feudal right to decide who his former wife could marry. He demanded an extortionate price for her hand yet Geoffrey FitzGeoffrey was willing to pay it.

A woman cast aside by her first husband, her second husband so deeply in in debt that his land was in danger of being seized by the crown, the king – her cousin - loathed by his subjects…there’s plenty of material in Isabel’s story.

Matthew Paris, a 13th century chronicler said King John ‘was a tyrant. He was a wicked ruler who did not behave like a king. He was greedy and took as much money as he could from his people. Hell is too good for a horrible person like him.’

King John died (probably of dysentery) in 1216. But even then people were saying ‘what if?’ and ‘just suppose…’ Rumour had it that he’d been poisoned. There’s a thriller here just begging to be written…

As someone with an interest in American history the second thing that had me enthralled was the draft Declaration of Independence. Jefferson calmly and neatly lays out a set of charges against the tyrant George III but his language becomes inflamed and his handwriting briefly explodes into furious block capitals when writing about slavery -

He has waged cruel war against human nature itself, violating its most sacred rights of life and liberty in the persons of a distant people who never offended him, captivating and carrying them into slavery in another hemisphere, or to incur miserable death in their transportation hither. This piratical warfare, the opprobrium of infidel powers, is the warfare of the Christian king of Great Britain. Determined to keep open a market where MEN should be bought and sold, he has prostituted his negative for suppressing every legislative attempt to prohibit or to restrain this execrable commerce…

Thomas Jefferson was a slave owner himself, so there’s an element of hypocrisy here. This particular passage was struck out of the finished declaration, but what if it hadn’t been? Just suppose Jefferson’s original draft had carried the day? Maybe things could have been different. How would the USA look now if they had been?

My third and possibly my favourite part of the exhibition - simply because it seems to say so much about human frailty and man’s capacity for blundering blindly towards disaster - was the copy of the Magna Carta that was damaged by fire in 1731 and then ‘restored’ in 1836 by Mr Hogarth.

Mr Hogarth had been regularly employed as a book binder when Josiah Forshall requested permission from the British Museum Trustees to conserve the document.

It seems that Mr Hogarth first flattened the precious manuscript with a heavy weight, then soaked it in water and glued it to a backing sheet. Using blotting paper to dry the parchment he lifted off much of the ink. It was a total catastrophe, yet the Trustees report declared the work to be ‘satisfactory’.

This incident really fuels the imagination. Was Mr Hogarth full of gleeful enthusiasm and oblivious to the disaster he’d wreaked? Was it an Only Fools and Horses chandelier moment? Did he have to make his excuses and run for it?

As for the Trustees - I can’t help imagining their expressions when they saw what he’d done. Tight lipped, ashen-faced, declaring it ‘satisfactory’ and then burying it deep in the basement in the hope that no one would ever find it?

There’s definitely a book there. Mr Hogarth’s Bad Day perhaps, or Mr Hogarth Messes Up?



Magna Carta: Law, Liberty, Legacy runs at the British Library until 1st September 2015. Go see it.

Paper, Print and the Georgians - Lucy Inglis

The British Library’s new Georgians Revealed exhibition is now open. It is a wonderful exploration of works on paper throughout the Georgian period, and the whole thing has a dynamic feel to it that reflects the spirit of the age.

Last month, I gave a Sunday lecture there focussing on the importance of paper during the eighteenth century, but also on the broader themes of life in Georgian London. What makes a Londoner? How was that identity forged? And what part did paper play in it?

Londoners had always been financial animals, but they were becoming consumers on an international scale. For that, they needed a currency they could trust. The foundation of the Bank of England in 1694 saw the beginning of a move towards standardised bank notes; the first ‘modern’ ones appeared in 1725. That, coupled with recoinage to get rid of the vast numbers of brass fakes swimming around the system, helped to stabilize the pound and create confidence in it. As an aside, the most famous of the Wardens of the Royal Mint, Isaac Newton aged nineteen, made a list of his sins which, along with stealing, ‘punching my sister’, ‘falling out with the servants’ and ‘having unclean thoughts’ was ‘Striving to cheat with a brass halfe crowne’.

International trade required that this money had a value not only at home, but when compared to other currencies, so, in 1698, a Huguenot named John Castaing began writing up a news-sheet called The Course of Exchange and Other Things. The sheet included stock prices, bullion rates and exchange rates. It was published on Tuesdays and Fridays and sent to the Hook of Holland the same day in bulk.

Owing to the power of commerce, literacy was rising fast. Parents and orphanages found that their children were simply more employable if they could read and write. This rapid rise in literacy was accompanied by a boom in print culture. Thousands of news-sheets, papers, ballads and broadsides were printed in London’s Moorfields, where Grub Street was a real place specialising in tabloid-type publications. Newspapers came to prominence in the reign of George I. They were key to London trade and social life, but politicians were becoming aware of how the press could be used to influence the electorate. Though the government was becoming increasingly aware that it could not control the press, it could - through the Post Office - control its distribution. It franked and sent out the newspapers which were most supportive and least inflammatory to those ‘who keep coffeehouses, that they might be furnished with them, gratis’.

Moorfields was not only the centre of production for the popular press, but it was also the home of many of London’s producers of pornography. Most of this was retailed south of the Strand, where two streets, Wych Street and Holywell Street were almost entirely given over to the sale of London’s saucier material. Samuel Pepys probably represents the average consumer: he had a copperplate print of a naked Nell Gwynn above his desk at the Admiralty; and in the early part of 1688, he purchased a copy of L’École des Filles from John Martin, his bookseller. On a February Sunday, ‘the Lord’s Day’, as he noted in his diary, he went to the office to do some work and have a little read of his new purchase, ‘which is a mighty lewd book, but yet not amiss for a sober man once to read over to inform himself in the villainy of the world’. Women also played a part in the production and sale of pornography: Elizabeth Nutt ran a cluster of shops in the Royal Exchange where she sold her more respectable stock, such as Swift’s Tale of a Tub. She was also listed as a ‘Mercury-woman’, printing cheap and often seditious or salacious ballads in Grub Street; in the 1730s, she was printing pornography there, aided by her daughters.

The rise in popular, accessible music was pioneered by John Walsh and his son, also John, from their shop the Harp and Hoboy in Catherine Street off Drury Lane. There, they held the monopoly on producing Handel’s work. Walsh started publishing in 1695 and was soon innovating: using cheap and quick-to-work pewter instead of copper and punches for notes to speed things up.  He had instant success, but his real opportunity presented itself when Handel appeared on the scene. Handel came to London in 1711 with the ink still wet on his opera Rinaldo, which he had been engaged to write for performance in the 1710-11 season at the Queen’s Theatre, Haymarket.  Aaron Hill, the manager, had decided upon an ‘Italian’ season, and Handel was the man to deliver, his reputation already known in the city. Opera was relatively new to London’s sophisticated set and attempts to establish an English style were damp squibs in the main. Rinaldo - a consciously Italianate opera written by a German - was an instant hit. The quick, cheap production of Handel’s music was key to his success. Hear it at a recital or on the stage, go to the Walsh’s shop, buy the sheet music for your instrument and go home and play Handel’s music.

But paper wasn’t only used for commerce and entertainment. It was also used for education and huge advances in medicine and science were recorded in ambitious manuals and treatises which went on to save thousands, if not millions of lives after their publication. The most important of these was arguably the collaboration of man-midwife William Smellie, surgeon William Hunter and artist Jan Van Rymsdyk. It resulted in two defining works: Smellie’s A sett of anatomical tables, with explanations, and an abridgement, of the practice of midwifery of 1754, and William Hunter’s Anatomy of the Human Gravid Uterus, Exhibited in Figures twenty years later. These books are still regarded as the moment modern obstetrics was born.

No lecture on paper, print and the Georgians would be complete without the Romantic poets, and we ended with Keats, Shelley and Byron. Keats was the only true Londoner, described by Byron as a ‘Cockney’ and a ‘dirty little blackguard’. Both Keats and Shelley had backgrounds in medicine. Shelley in particular was interested in Galvinism and the reanimation of the body. The lectures he attended on it coincided with the beginning of his love affair with Mary Godwin and she listened, rapt, as he talked about them afterwards. Later, Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein, telling the story of a monster brought to life through reanimation and of a need for love that could not be conquered by death. I gave the last words to Samuel Taylor Coleridge, whose writings, both his poetry and private letters, gave his contemporaries a powerful insight into the dangers of addiction. He died in 1834, in the lull of the reign of William IV. The Georges had gone, and Victoria was still to arrive, but London had changed immeasurably. Coleridge wrote from a small room in his doctor’s house in Highgate, where he was treated for addiction. The view from the window was of the ‘ocean of London, with its domes and steeples definite in the sun, big Paul’s and the many memories attached to it hanging high over all...Nowhere, of its kind, could you see a grander prospect on a bright summer day.’