Mysteries of the Roman Dead

by Caroline Lawrence

I have been obsessed with the ancient Graeco-Roman world for over forty years. I studied Greek and Latin at U.C. Berkeley and later at Cambridge and London. I have been writing historical fiction set in the Classical world for nearly twenty years. But the more I learn about the ancients, the less I feel I understand them. 

A free exhibition called Roman Dead currently on at the Museum of London Docklands presents a dozen ancient skeletons of Roman Londoners, as well as ashes of the cremated. There are tombstones, urns and grave-goods (personal objects buried with the dead). It may sound gruesome, but it’s utterly fascinating. The contents of graves from Roman London show us how much we still have to learn about the ancient Romans.

Here are five mysterious aspects of the exhibition that intrigue me. 

1. Why such a big sarcophagus? 

This is the star piece of the exhibition. Found a year ago (in June 2017) at a site on Harper Road in Southwark, this massive box (and lid) is made of limestone imported from Lincolnshire and weighs two and a half tons. Why put a body inside such a heavy stone box? To stop her spirit from haunting the living? To keep robbers from taking her jewellery? Or to stop grave robbers from doing something even worse? As dozens of surviving curse tablets show, many Romans believed in magic. In a recent blog post, Roman magic expert Adam Parker notes that witches used parts of dead bodies for their spells. So maybe this was a way of keeping the witches or sorcerers out of her grave, i.e. of protecting the dead from the living rather than vice versa.   Is that what’s going on here? Is this massive sarcophagus designed to protect the body from misuse or robbery? If so, it didn’t work. The heavy lid had been pushed aside and part of her arm is missing. A tiny scrap of gold hints that she was in fact robbed of jewellery. Creepily, the partial skeleton of a baby was found with her skeleton. Was it originally buried with the woman? Or did it fall into the sarcophagus when it was robbed? 

2. Why is her skull on her pelvis?

From a grave at Hooper Street near Tower Hamlets, we have the complete skeleton of a woman aged between 36-45. She was buried in a wooden coffin on a bed of chalk powder. Some time after she was buried, when she had started to decompose, someone dug her up again, removed the top of her skull and it placed above her pelvis. Then the coffin was reburied and rocks were piled on top. Among the rocks was a copper-alloy key. Was the key part of the reburial? Or accidentally dropped? Why was she buried on a bed of chalk? But most importantly, why was the top part of her skull placed over her pelvis?! Maybe the newly positioned skull, rocks and key (along with a ceremony we can’t guess at) were designed to stop the woman’s spirit from haunting those still above earth. Romans thought the womb was the seat of uncanny power. 

Listen to a commentary on this and other objects HERE

3. Why is the lucky amulet under a jug?

Also found at the Hooper Street excavations was a young woman in a coffin with jet jewellery. Whitby Jet is not a precious stone but rather ancient fossilised wood from the Jurassic era. When you rub it against wool it produces a static charge that can move hair and other small particles without touching theme. Romans didn’t know about static and believed jet to be a magical substance that could keep away evil. Romans also believed that you could do harm to someone just by looking at them a certain way, hence amulets with staring faces like that of Medusa to ‘reflect back the evil eye’. So a jet medallion of Medusa’s face will be doubly protective. So far so good. But why was this jet medallion hidden under a small ceramic flagon? What is going on here? In addition, her other items of jet jewellery were not on her but near her. Is this magic? 

Listen to a commentary about the lion HERE

4. Why a lion? 

In 1876, Victorian workmen found the remains of a semi-circular tower in the Roman Wall at Bishopsgate, near where the Gherkin stands today. These bastions were built in the 4th century using material from earlier Roman structures. Among the rubble used to build the tower was a stone lion devouring a stag. The stone is imported limestone from the South Cotswolds (London has no local stone) and was carved in the round, so perhaps stood atop a mausoleum. Why a lion? The museum label says the lion stands for the power of death, but I’m not buying it. Why pay a fortune for an expensive carved sculpture made of imported stone just to state the obvious? Could the lion be a warning to people or spirits who might want to do harm to the grave? If the lion is on MY grave, then it’s MY lion. That would be worth paying for. This lion devouring his prey reminds me of the ivory leopard handle of another Roman girl’s folding knife. This is MY knife and therefore MY leopard. Watch out!  

Pinecones for sale in Taormino, Sicily

5. Why a pinecone?

From Great Dover Street, Southwark comes a pinecone made of imported French limestone (shown in the picture above along with the lion). Similar pieces have been found on military sites from the North of England. Ever since I first noticed pinecones for sale in Sicily, I have wondered what they signified in the Graeco-Roman world. Actual pine cones and kernels were found on the site of London’s Mithraeum and also at Londinium’s amphitheatre, as well as at a cremation burial. It is thought that pinecones were burned as incense, perhaps to attract good deities and/or repel evil spirits. At the Roman Dead exhibition, the label suggests they were associated with the god Attis, who represented rebirth and resurrection. Was the pinecone the pagan equivalent of the Christian cross? 

All these mysterious objects remind us that although the Romans were like us in many ways, in others they were very different.

Roman Dead is on until the end of October 2018 at the Museum of London Docklands and it is free. The exhibition is interactive and multi-sensory, with incense to smell, rattles to shake and replica Roman objects to touch. There is even a family trail for kids 8 and older. Ask at the front desk for a free origami Quiz Machine. 

The Key to the Womb

by Caroline Lawrence

I have been studying the remains and also the grave-goods of a 14-year-old girl from 3rd century Roman London as part of the inspiration for a new book provisionally titled The Girl with the Ivory Knife. Dubbed the Lant Street Teen, this girl’s grave was uncovered on Lant Street in Southwark when ground was being cleared for a new development near Borough Tube Station. 

One reason she is of interest is that her DNA and isotopes have been analysed and tell us that she was of European ancestry with blue eyes, but grew up in the southern Mediterranean, perhaps even North Africa. (She was buried near other Roman Londoners of black African ancestry.) We know from her teeth and bones that she came to London aged about nine and died five years later, aged around fourteen. 

Apart from the fascinating story suggested by her DNA and isotopes, her burial was notable for the richness of the grave goods. In a cemetery where other bodies were buried with maybe a couple of clay beakers and some glass beads, the Lant Street Teen had two exotic glass perfume bottles, a wooden box decorated with bone inlay and copper, a copper-alloy key on a chain and an iron clasp knife with an ivory handle in the shape of a leopard. The glamour of a knife with a handle of expensive ivory in the shape of an exotic leopard has slightly eclipsed the other items, in particular the little key. 

One of my obsessions is with the apotropaic devices and charms of the ancient Roman world. We forget how terrifying it was to live in a world of invisible enemies. The Romans had no concept of infection apart from a vague idea of miasma or bad air. Most illnesses, accidents and other calamities were blamed on evil spirits or gods. For this reason, I believe that almost every manufactured item had an apotropaic aspect (i.e. to turn away evil) either as its primary function or in addition to its primary function. The girl’s knife, for example, obviously had many practical functions, but its fierce leopard-shaped handle made from piercing elephant tooth might have had the power to frighten off spirits.

The box may have contained makeup which not only beautified but protected.

Her clothing did not survive, but it almost certainly had built-in protection. In her book Dress and Personal Appearance in Late Antiquity, Faith Pennick Morgan points out that almost all embellishment on ancient garments was apotropaic. Borders, knots and sewn-in talismans were all designed to act as ‘flypaper for demons’, to confuse them and keep the wearer safe. Even colours had special properties. For example, red was considered repellent to demons which may explain why archaeologists have found so many children’s tunics in this colour. (Children were considered especially vulnerable, which is why they also wore apotropaic amulets such as the phallus-shaped charm.)

The two small flasks might have contained perfume; good and bad smells were used to manipulate spirits. In ancient times, the uterus of a woman was considered by the ancients to be a living creature – almost demonic – wandering around and causing damage or death to a woman by harming or squeezing her other internal organs. Plato (Timaeus 91c) writes that the wombs and uteruses of women have in them a living animal that craves children. (Our word ‘hysterical’ comes from the Greek word for uterus.) Ancient doctors suggested that girls marry as close to their first period as possible so that they could bear children and control the wandering womb.

If the restless womb moved too far down, doctors would place pleasant incense near the woman’s head to draw it up while at the same time wafting unpleasant scents such as burnt hair, pitch, cedar resin and squashed bedbugs (!) between her legs to repel the womb. If the womb had wandered too high and threatened to asphyxiate the woman by pressing on her lungs, then they would do the opposite, placing sweet-smelling things below her pelvis and ill-smelling substances by her nose. (see Magical and Medical Approaches to the Wandering Womb in the Ancient Greek World by Christopher A. Faraone) 

This brings us to the last item found in her grave, the key on its chain. 

What might this have symbolised? 

In Roman times, a key on a woman’s belt might well have showed that she enjoyed responsibility in her domain, the household. Sets of keys dangling from belts on a chain became an important status symbol in Late Antique times and gave us the word chatelaine. But the Lant Street Teen’s key seems too small and delicate to be a house or storeroom key. It feels more like the key to a small chest or box. Although we have the evidence that she was buried with just such a small box (above), there is no trace of a lock, which one assumes would also have been in copper-alloy. 

Perhaps the key symbolised the unlocking of the Gates of Death so that the girl’s soul could cross the threshold into the afterlife. This suggestion is made in connection with an iron key found above the pelvis of a Roman woman’s skeleton from Cirencester. (The Western Cemetery of Roman Cirencester p24 & p88) There is another possibility for the Lant Street Girl’s key that I have not seen suggested elsewhere.   

Many Romans believed the soul to be immortal, but another way of ensuring ‘everlasting memory’ was to leave something of yourself behind. Literature, a monument or a fine tombstone were all ways of making a mark. Another way of continuing beyond death was to live through offspring. In this day and age of empowered women we tend to downplay the craving for children, but this was often the deepest desire of many women in ancient times. 

In her book about Dress in Late Antiquity, Faith Morgan writes that keys were found on womb amulets, symbolising control of the opening of the womb to allow conception and pregnancy, and the locking of the womb to prevent miscarriage. (p36) And in his fascinating article about the Wandering Womb, Faraone highlights the many gems of hematite (bloodstone) depicting a womb above a key. The womb is shown as a kind of upside down beaker and the key is usually the kind with teeth like a comb. (The picture above shows a big iron key probably for a warehouse door. On the amulet below you can see the key with crank-like handle and distinctive teeth beneath the opening of the womb.) 

Womb amulet gem from the British Museum

In this position the key clearly symbolises the locking or unlocking of the womb. (This one has a magical seven teeth.) Again, the womb is like a creature that needs controlling. Sometimes a magic name is carved on the other side of these magic womb amulets. This may be the name of the demon or spirit in charge of wombs. Sometimes a sentence on the back addresses the demon or even the womb directly. E.g. ‘Contract, womb, lest Typhon seize you!’ (Faraone Gems of Heaven p 66) 

Reading about keys on womb amulets made me wonder about the small key found with the bones of the Lant Street Teen. Perhaps it was the key to the now-lost wooden box, originally worn with her knife on her belt. But perhaps she also wore it as a talisman to protect a growing baby in her womb. Dr Rebecca Redfern, who probably knows this girl’s bones better than anybody, told me that although the Lant Street Teen was young there is a chance that she might have been a young mother. And we have just seen that it was recommended that girls begin to bear children as soon as possible. Perhaps our girl even died in childbirth. In that case, the little key that protected her womb and helped her bear fruit would be a testimony of her achievement on earth. This is my own idea, and a far-fetched one, I admit, which may or may not end up in my fictionalised account of her life. 

Whether the Lant Street Teenager had a child or not, she has now gained a kind of ‘everlasting memory’ in the ongoing mystery of who she was. 

You can see the Lant Street Teen’s grave goods (though not her bones) at the current Roman Dead exhibition at the Museum of London Docklands. The remains of other Roman Londoners shed light how they lived but also bring home how much we still have to learn.

Light as a Feather - The Art of Levitation by Deborah Swift

'This is the art of Levitation...

levitation...

levitation...'

Do these words seem familiar? This is the beginning of the chant for the old parlour game I played when I was a child. Some of you may know it as 'Light as a feather, stiff as a board'. I first came across this at my primary school cloakroom when I was about eight years old. Amid the stink of old gym shoes and wet gabardine coats, a group of girls would gather around another girl, lying with arms crossed on the floor (the supposed corpse), chant a few words and then try to raise her off the ground by only one finger.

The leader would chant; 'She looks pale', to which we would all reply in ghostly tones, 'She is pale!' Leader: 'She looks dead.'
Us: 'She is dead!'

After this somewhat morbid chant we would count backwards from three to one and...oh cripes! The person would actually lift off the ground. Half-terrified, half-amazed, we would scream in horror and the person would fall in a tangled heap back to the ground. Where on earth did this 'game' come from? Do children still do it today? Thinking back on this now, it seems a completely creepy and bizarre activity.

Samuel Pepys

Or it did, until I was reading Pepys's Diary last week.  As part of my research for my next book, I was astonished to come across a report of precisely this activity. Three hundred and fifty years ago schoolgirls were apparently doing exactly this. Now whether the activity came from Pepys's Diary and subsequent girls copied that, or whether it was already existent, piqued my interest. Here is Pepys's version, told to him by a friend on 31st July 1665:

"This evening with Mr. Brisband, speaking of enchantments and spells; I telling him some of my charms; he told me this of his owne knowledge, at Bourdeaux, in France. 
The words these:

Voyci un Corps mort,
Royde come un Baston, 

Froid comme Marbre, 

Leger come un esprit, 

Levons to au nom de Jesus Christ.

He saw four little girles, very young ones, all kneeling, each of them, upon one knee; and one begun the first line, whispering in the eare of the next, and the second to the third, and the third to the fourth, and she to the first. Then the first begun the second line, and so round quite through, and, putting each one finger only to a boy that lay flat upon his back on the ground, as if he was dead; at the end of the words, they did with their four fingers raise this boy as high as they could reach, and he [Mr. Brisband] being there, and wondering at it, as also being afeard to see it, for they would have had him to have bore a part in saying the words, in the roome of one of the little girles that was so young that they could hardly make her learn to repeat the words, did, for feare there might be some sleight used in it by the boy, or that the boy might be light, call the cook of the house, a very lusty fellow, as Sir G. Carteret’s cook, who is very big, and they did raise him in just the same manner. This is one of the strangest things I ever heard, but he tells it me of his owne knowledge, and I do heartily believe it to be true. I enquired of him whether they were Protestant or Catholique girles; and he told me they were Protestant, which made it the more strange to me."

St Joseph of Cupertino

I have found no earlier reference to schoolgirls attempting to levitate, but perhaps the idea came from St. Joseph of Cupertino (1603–1663) who was an Italian saint who flew high in the air or hovered just above the ground whilst in mystical ecstasy. His life being just before Pepys's time, perhaps these girls could have heard of him, and the craze started then.

Of course St Joseph of Cupertino was nothing new; in the first century a man named Simon Magnus levitated in full view of St. Peter in a challenge to prove he was endowed with supernatural powers. But Cupertino would have been much talked of in Pepys's period, as his 'floatings' were apparently witnessed by hundreds of people, many of whom testified, as part of his canonization process, to seeing the phenomenon. There are written records in the Vatican from many eminent churchmen, along with ordinary people, giving copious details about Cupertino’s levitations. 

Of course in England there was suspicion at that time of anything Catholic. This would explain Pepys's comment "I enquired of [Mr. Brisband] whether they were Protestant or Catholique girles; and he told me they were Protestant, which made it the more strange to me."

I find it surprising that young girls should do it at all, in an age where to float would be tantamount to witchcraft. In fact one of the tests of witchcraft was whether the woman would float in water, and whether she was light enough to fly. 'Weighing' witches was common in this era. 

The floating, light and ethereal body is an idea found in most religions, and the wish to levitate akin to a desire to rise above the physical, whilst still inhabiting an earthly body. The idea of levitation was particularly prominent in the Victorian era when it became conflated with Spiritualism and psychic phenomena such as poltergeists. In the Victorian era is nearly always a woman floating, mysteriously under the control of a man, so it is rather nice that this weird ritual has been (as far as I can tell)  mostly the province of girls.

In our popular imagination, to be able to fly and defy gravity is the stuff of dreams. Of course as an eight year old girl, I knew none of this. The unexplained is always thrilling whether you live now or in 1665, and children's games are often much older (and darker) than we suspect. Do any of you remember other versions of this 'game?'

'A frog he would a-wooing go ...' by Karen Maitland

'The Love Potion' by 

Evelyn De Morgan (1855-1919)

February is the month when supermarkets and florists try to make us fall 'in love with love' again. But if you are looking for an alternative to chocolate hearts and a cute card to win someone’s affection, you might want to take advice from our medieval forebears, who had numerous ways of enticing a lover and, perhaps more importantly, useful methods of ridding themselves of annoying suitors.

Love-philtres were lucrative money-spinners from the time of the ancient Greeks onwards, though as physicians consistently warned, drinking one was like drinking a cup of poison, for in addition to ingredients such as mandrake root, menstrual blood and the pizzle of an animal, formulae often called for ingredients which were likely contain lethal bacteria, such as cat’s brains, the hair around a wolf’s anus and young swallows, which were buried in the earth and dug up when they were beginning to decompose. If these dead swallows were unearthed with their beaks open were they added to love-philtres, while those with their beaks closed were used in potions intended to destroy love.

Common Valerian, Valeriana officinalis

Photo: AnRo000

More palatable and benign love-philtres contained herbs such as anemone, wild carrot, cumin, periwinkle and purslane, and it was said that if a girl wore valerian she’d never lack lovers. In his herbal of 1597, John Gerard tells us that if cyclamen (sowbread) is baked into little cakes it makes a ‘good amorous medicine to make one in love.’ This may have been in part due to one of its other properties, that ‘it loves the vine’ and ‘hates all sobering plants’, so that if added to a drinker’s cup it would increase the potency of the wine and quickly intoxicate the drinker.

Cyclamen or Sowbread, Cyclamen hederifolium.

Photo: H.Zell

But by the 16th century love philtres were regarded as witchcraft and it was recognised that many could be lethal or cause irreversible brain damage. Nevertheless, the Flemish chemist and physician Jan Baptist Van Helmont (1580-1644) claimed to know of a ‘common’ herb which, if you rubbed it into your hand until it was warm, then held the hand of the person you desired until their hand was hot in yours, they’d fall in love with you and the effect would last several days. Presumably though, they’d already have to be fond of you to be willing to hold your hand that long, unless, of course, Helmont was attempting to seduce one of his patients whilst taking their pulse.

Before the days of internet dating, you could always use the services of a local hermit. On Dartmoor it was the tradition on Palm Sunday for unwed girls and lads to drink honey-sweetened water from Ashwell spring at Bovey Tracey, in the hope of discovering their future spouse. According to legend, a hermit discovered that a wounded knight and ailing girl, secretly loved one another, but neither believed their love was reciprocated. So, he sent each to bathe in Ashwell spring, telling them it would heal them, in the hope that they would meet and start talking. His plan worked and they married.

Photo: Hannes Grobe

Frogs are perhaps not the most popular valentine's symbol, except if the suitor is trying to convince someone of his hidden potential, but because they appeared to ‘regenerate’ in great numbers after the spring floods which brought fertility to the lands, frogs were symbols of the ancient goddesses of fertility in many early cultures. As the goddesses were demonised by the monotheistic religions, the frog also became a symbol of sin and heresy. This irresistible combination of fecundity and sin meant that throughout the Middle Ages and up until the last century, these unfortunate creatures were used in many love-charms and in love-repelling charms too.

If a girl thought her lover’s affections had strayed, she would stick pins into a living frog until it died and bury it. From that moment, her faithless lover would feel as if he was being mercilessly stabbed with red-hot needles, which only stopped when he returned to her. Then she would covertly remove the pins from the frog and her lover would find himself strangely compelled to propose marriage. In some versions of this charm, she was instructed to secretly attach a bone from the frog to the man’s clothing to ensure his return.

Mummified Frog from the Malcom Lidbury

Witchcraft Collection. Photo: Malcom Lidbury

But men could be equally ruthless. If a man wanted a woman to fall in love with him, he would bury a frog in an anthill, until the ants had reduced it to bones. He’d remove two of the bones, one shaped like a hook and the other like a spade. He’d conceal the hook bone on girl’s clothing, where upon she would become infatuated with him. When he became bored with her, he would touch the spade-bone to the hook-bone and she would instantly fall out of love, leaving him free to pursue the next woman. Ants eggs, poppies, water-lilies and hemlock were also said to induce someone to fall out of love. The only problem being that you had to get the victim to swallow them without them knowing, if you wanted to cool his or her ardour.

A husband who suspected his wife was being unfaithful and who wanted to make her reveal her secrets might have followed the advice given by Giambattista Della Porta in ‘Magiae naturalis’ 1558, (translated as ‘Natural Magic’ in 1658) who instructed the husband to put the tongue of a frog over his wife’s heart at night as she slept, because this animal ‘gives tongue’ at night. Then the husband could ask the wife anything he wanted. She would talk in her sleep and answer him truthfully.

If a woman wanted to ensure the faithfulness of her spouse or lover she was advised to secretly dig up the earth from his footprints, put it in a pot and sow marigold seeds in it. That would bind her lover to her and ward off any attempt to steal his affections from her by charms or witchcraft.

Advertisement circa 1900

Miami University Digital Collection

Finally, should a lover need some ‘encouragement to passion’, the Anglo-Saxon leech books prescribed an ointment which could be rubbed onto the reluctant member consisting of nettle seeds, goat’s gall and goat’s dung mixed with incense. Perhaps the incense helped to counteract the stench of goat.

Perhaps after all, it would be safer to opt for the chocolate heart or an over-priced rose this Valentine's Day. They’d certainly smell sweeter.

Cabinet of Curiosities - Harry Potter: A History of Magic at the British Library by Charlotte Wightwick

So I’m cheating a bit this month. The Cabinet of Curiosities is supposed to be one object which I’d love to have for myself. However I couldn’t resist talking about the current exhibition at the British Library on Harry Potter; A History of Magic, which is itself a compendium of incredible objects.

It’s a fantastic exhibition, making brilliant use of archive material, historical artefacts and modern technology to create an experience unlike any I’ve been to before. It combines original Harry Potter archive material and memorabilia with historical manuscripts and objects, setting J.K. Rowling’s fantasy world into the context of real historical beliefs about magic, with technology providing an interactive experience for those who want to try their own hands at ‘magic’.

So, for instance, the exhibition includes hand- and type-written excerpts from J.K Rowling’s original manuscripts (complete with editorial suggestions and some entirely unknown scenes which were cut from the final books), novel plans and some of her own early drawings of characters and locations – an absolute treasure trove for fans and fellow writers. There are also a large number of original drawings and paintings from the illustrated versions of the books by Jim Kay, with sound effects and objects from the films too.

The exhibition is organised into a number of different rooms, each of which is dedicated to an individual Hogwarts’ ‘lessons’ – Potions, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, etc. In each case, Rowling’s archive material is cleverly interspersed with manuscripts and objects which explore ‘real life’ historical beliefs surrounding magic.

For example, the Herbology room includes Jim Kay’s illustrations of the greenhouses as Hogwarts; J.K. Rowling’s own drawing of Professor Sprout and some stunningly beautiful Herbals from the British Library’s Collection. The Care of Magical Creatures room is another highlight for anyone who loves medieval bestiaries and illuminated manuscripts.

The Astrology room contains stunning early globes, astrolables and orreries, as well as medieval manuscripts with illustrations of centaurs and other mythological creatures relating to the constellations. One of my favourite items in the exhibition was the sixteenth century ‘volvelle’ – a beautiful rotating paper model – of an astrological chart with a dragon at its centre, from Petrus Apianus’ Astronomicum Caesareum. The dragon could be spun in order to determine the latitude of the moon, or to cast horoscopes.

Similarly, the Divination room contains a whole raft of artefacts and manuscripts showing how different practices to determine the future have been used through centuries and across continents (another great feature of the exhibition is that it doesn’t restrict itself to European traditions of magic, but looks across continents and civilisations) – and makes use of modern technology to allow younger visitors the chance to look into their own futures.

So, which would be my one object to take home for my Cabinet of Curiosities, if I was allowed? Its tricky. The spinning astrological dragon would have to be up there. But then I’m also enough of a Potter fan to covet one of J.K. Rowling’s own drawings. The beautifully intricate gold filigree case containing a bezoar stone was also stunning.

But the thing I did actually take away with me, apart from a head full of wonder? The exhibition book. As well as beautiful colour photos of many of the exhibits, it also contains some fascinating essays by authors as diverse as astronaut Tim Peake, TV wildlife expert Steve Backshall, and author Anna Pavord. The exhibition’s curator, Julian Harrison, provides the overall foreword. He also tweets regularly, including about his favourite objects from the exhibition, and is well worth a follow @julianpharrison. 

My object for my Cabinet of Curiosities!

The exhibition book, published by Bloomsbury

To find out more about the exhibition (including whether there are any tickets left! It closes at the end of February) the website is:

https://www.bl.uk/events/harry-potter-a-history-of-magic

If you do get the opportunity, I really would encourage you to go. It’s a wonderful example of how stories, even those set in with a supposedly fantastical backdrop, can stimulate our imaginations about the truth of history and of the world around us.

Curing Charms and Killing Kings by Karen Maitland

I love old dialect words and one of my favourites from the West Country is bless-vore meaning a spell or charm intended to do good. I was suddenly reminded of bless-vores when I heard the news that, in future, Acts of Parliament will only be printed on paper and not on vellum.

Up to 1850, any Bill being presented before parliament was written on a parchment roll. This roll was then sent through various stages in the Commons and the House of Lords, but however much the Bill changed, it was never re-written on a new roll. They simply scratched out words to be removed from the parchment and wrote the amendments over the top. The longest Act of Parliament still preserved in the form of a scroll is an 1821 Act concerning, as you might guess, taxes. It’s almost a quarter of a mile long. Imagine re-rolling that! But in 1849/1850, parchment rolls were replaced by parchment codices or booklets, and from then on, two copies of each Act were printed on vellum, one for the House of Lords and the other to be stored in the Public Record Office.

Halesowen Abbey Scroll of the Magna Carta
on 3 sections of joined parchment.
Photographer: Jacklee

What has that to do with bless-vores, you might ask? The link is that long after paper had become commonplace and cheaper than parchment, written charms or bless-vores were thought to be most effective if they were written on scraps of vellum or parchment rather than paper. In fact for the best results, charms had to written on virgin parchment, that is parchment made from the hide of an animal that had not yet mated, or even more gruesomely on unborn parchment which was made from a calf or kid cut from the womb or aborted. According to Robert Turner, writing in mid-1600's, a London shop called the Lamb and Inkbottle, not only sold inks and parchments, but also potions that would produce animal abortions for customers wishing to produce their own unborn parchment.

Written charms were usually worn round the neck in little bags, sewn into clothes or rolled up and pushed into holes in the walls of barns and cottages to protect the inhabitants from sickness and witchcraft. Buyers were warned that if these charms touched the ground, the power would drain out of them. On the other hand, charms intended to protect livestock or lift a curse from land would often be buried in boxes or bottles in the corners of fields, at a point where the rising sun first touched the field.

12th or 13th century instructions for making a charm (shown on the right)
to be hung round the neck of a woman who wanted to conceive.

The words of the written charms themselves often included biblical phrases, so when you come across one, it’s sometimes hard to tell if this is a scrap of a prayer intended for devotional use or a charm written by a cunning-woman or man, especially as many were written in Latin or cod-Latin with some Hebrew thrown in. A typical example from the 19th century reads -

"Omnes spiritus laudent Dominum.
Misericordiam habe Deus
Desinetur Inimicus. Fiat. Fiat. Fiat."

It is likely that many of these would have been copied or miscopied from prayer books or church inscriptions by the charm-writer who had only a vague idea what the words meant. Often these were sealed with wax or sewn into a bag, so that they could not be read aloud for fear of them losing their power or calling down something worse.

Other charms were intended to read out, like the one sold to a Devon couple who feared their horse had been cursed. The charm-writer told them to read the charm aloud three times. It calls upon the names of three angels and the Holy Trinity and includes the line -

‘I do this to torture and torment that man or woman who has injured us.’

During the Middle Ages, the wearing of charms was not condemned by the Church. Thomas Aquinas said there was nothing unlawful about attaching holy words to the neck. In Malleus Maleficarum (The Hammer of the Witches, 1486) there were seven rules to tell if a charm was holy or evil, amongst them was that the words of a holy charm should not suggest a pact with the devil and should only use phrases that were Biblical in origin. Unfortunately , just a century later, ‘witches’ could be punished or even sentenced to death for possessing any kind of charm, holy or not, especially during the centuries of Protestant rule. But this certainly did not stamp out the practise.

As the Members of Parliament found, one of the advantages of using parchment is that the words can be scratched off and this property was used in some charms intended to cure illness. The charm would be written in full on parchment then every day or every week one line or word of the charm would be scraped off while the owner said ‘As these words are destroyed, so may the sickness be destroyed.’ Such charms were frequently used if a long-distance cure was required.

Another property of parchment is the ability to pour water on it without it disintegrating, so the patient might be advised to pour wine or spirits across the words written on the parchment to dissolve them then drink the dissolved words to produce a cure.

In medieval times this could also be used as test of innocence or guilt. Words from a psalm would be written on parchment then the ink was dissolved in wine and holy water. The suspect would be forced to drink the mixture. If he was guilty the words would choke him and he would cough, vomit, or in some cases even die. It must have been only too easy to condemn an innocent man using this method, by adding an irritant or even poison to the ink or wine.

But times are changing and no longer keeping the Acts of Parliament on vellum, may hopefully save the lives of some animals and money for the taxpayer, but as MP Tory Gerald Howarth remarked,

‘The death warrant of Charles I was recorded on vellum.’

"Whereas Charles Stuart King of England is and standeth convicted attainted and condemned of High Treason and other high crimes, And sentence upon Saturday last was pronounced against him by this by this Court to be put to death by the severing of his head from his body of which sentence execution yet remaineth to be done, these are therefore to will and require you to see the said sentence executed in the open street before Whitehall upon the morrow being the Thirtieth day of this instant month of January between the hours of Ten in the morning and Five in the afternoon of the same day with full effect and for so doing this shall be your sufficient warrant." 

And somehow, all these centuries later, I don’t think I would feel so quite so moved when I look at this momentous document, if the king’s death warrant had been issued on an A4 sheet of copy paper.

Man of Mystery: Chung Ling Soo

by Teresa Flavin

If you search the internet for images of one of my favourite historical figures, magician Chung Ling Soo, you will find him on an array of gorgeous theatre posters with his name lettered in the shapes of dragons and smoke. Among the portraits of this solemn Chinese man with a shaved head and long queue, you might also notice a photo of a Western man with a striking handlebar moustache and think he has popped up by mistake. 

But if you look closely, mentally removing the moustache and hair, you'll see a resemblance. Chung Ling Soo was really William Ellsworth Robinson, a New Yorker who was born in 1861. He began his career as Robinson, the Man of Mystery but metamorphosed into Chung Ling Soo, Marvellous Chinese Conjuror in 1900. It's said that he modeled himself on a true Chinese conjuror, Ching Ling Foo, who brought his spellbinding traditional magic show to the United States in 1898. 

The story goes that Ching Ling Foo offered a $1000 reward (possibly as a publicity stunt) to anyone who could replicate his illusion of first producing a bowl of water from a piece of cloth, then a child from the bowl of water. Thomas Edison had a go at it, on film at least, which can be viewed here. When Robinson came forward but was rejected, he reinvented himself as Chung Ling Soo, relocated to London and built a new career as a mysterious conjuror from the East who spoke no English and communicated with journalists through an 'interpreter'.

I first learned of him when I happened to see the Flying Carpet Theatre performing The Mystery of Chung Ling Soo on the Edinburgh Festival Fringe in 2005. Only this past week, Flying Carpet put up recorded scenes from the performances and reignited my interest in the story of how Soo created and maintained the ultimate illusion over many years. 

He not only managed to keep his true identity secret but created a Chinese alter ego, Suee Seen, for his wife and stage assistant, Dottie. The portraits and photos look unconvincing in places but clearly fooled the public. Chung Ling Soo's exotic "brand", coupled with his growing arsenal of illusions, brought him fame and pitted him in a head-to-head rivalry with Ching Ling Foo that benefitted them both. 

One of his most dramatic illusions was Condemned to Death by the Boxers, inspired by the Boxer Rebellion of 1899-1901. The Boxers believed they possessed supernatural powers that would repel knives and bullets and Soo created a stunt in which he caught two bullets in a porcelain plate held to his chest. Audience members who were familiar with firearms were invited to examine the weapons and mark the bullets before Soo's firing squad attempted to "execute" him. He performed the illusion successfully for twelve years until March 1918, when the trick went tragically wrong and Soo was shot dead onstage at the Wood Green Empire theatre.

According to Jim Steinmeyer, author of The Glorious Deception, whose detailed account of Chung Ling Soo's final performance can be read here, there was much speculation that the magician had been murdered or had even committed suicide. As people tried to unpick the illusion to understand what had gone wrong (Soo's own associates seemingly had no idea how it worked), his carefully groomed identity also unraveled. After he was shot, the facade finally slipped and Soo reverted to Robinson, calling out in English for the stage curtain to be lowered.

Chung Ling Soo lives on, referenced in stories and films such as Christopher Nolan's The Prestige. The magician who hid behind seductive veils of glamour secured a place in history with his singular death and the exposure of his colourful double life.

Teresa Flavin is the author and illustrator of The Blackhope Enigma and The Crimson Shard, historical fantasy novels for young readers, published by Templar Publishing in the UK and Candlewick Press in the USA. She is currently at work on the final novel in the trilogy.

From the Sketchbook: A Storytelling of Ravens

By Teresa Flavin

Elizabeth Bird, who blogs for the excellent School Library Journal, recently wrote this entertaining post about the growing number of ravens appearing in this year’s young adult books. Since the cover of my first novel, The Blackhope Enigma, features a cackling raven, it qualifies for what Elizabeth tagged a “weirdo trend”.

Now I’m no goth, but this is a weirdo trend I’m pleased to be associated with. I am a corvid fan. I spent hours cutting out big raven silhouettes for Blackhope’s UK book launch last summer and the real star of the show that evening was a pretty menacing stuffed raven. I have even been tempted to get some black feather wings to wear at events, but after reading Caroline Lawrence’s post on Tuesday, I’ll defer that decision!

I don’t know anyone who is neutral about ravens. They seem to be on a par with bats, snakes and spiders. Even an “unkindness”, the collective noun for ravens, is darkly evocative. A comment on Elizabeth’s blog post said that a “storytelling of ravens” is also used; if we add a “murder of crows” to the mix, we get an insight into people’s uneasy attitude towards corvids.

It’s hardly surprising, considering the raven is large, black, feeds on carrion and is therefore linked with the battlefield and the gallows. This bird is so intelligent, it is known to hunt cooperatively with man’s ancient enemy, the wolf, to secure its food. Ravens communicate in a complex set of sounds with a distinctive voice. Humans have long believed they possess the gift of clairvoyance and have even imagined ravens as witches’ familiars. It’s a bad omen to kill a raven.

Before coming to Scotland I was acquainted with the Native American depiction of Raven as a world-creating, shape-shifting trickster god, who can alternate between being deceitful and greedy or wise and heroic. In a Tlingit tale I once illustrated, Raven gives counsel to humans who later suffer consequences when they ignore his advice.

I learned that in European mythology, ravens act as messengers or guides, and sometimes a deity will appear in their guise. The Norse god, Odin, is accompanied by two ravens, Huginn and Muninn (“Thought” and “Memory”), who fly around the world and bring back news. Two wolves also accompany Odin, nicely echoing their connection with ravens in the wild. The Roman historian, Tacitus, linked Odin (and his Anglo-Saxon counterpart, Woden), with the messenger god, Mercury. Woden, Mercury and his Greek equivalent, Hermes, were all psychopomps, guides of souls to the afterlife. Certain animals were also considered to be psychopomps, including ravens. In my charcoal drawing above, the raven is in an imaginary night landscape, perhaps on the lookout for souls!

The Blackhope Enigma has an enigmatic late Renaissance painter-magician at its centre. I named him Fausto Corvo, the Raven, as he is a guide of souls to the living underworlds of his own magical paintings. Ravens act as his lookouts and messengers within the under-paintings, whose imagery is inspired by the Greco-Roman myths that Renaissance artists often depicted. Corvo has been able to create these worlds, in which he has hidden ancient secrets of the universe, because he is an adept at astral magic. This is a “natural” magic that purports to draw down the power of heavenly bodies. Belief in a hidden realm of angelic spirits who influence earthly matters was common in the sixteenth century; magicians who understood these stellar powers and were able to control them would seemingly be able to work wonders. A magician like Corvo, who is also an astounding artist, is a potent force indeed.

Renaissance adepts would be familiar with astrology and alchemy in ancient texts attributed to a supposedly historical figure from Hellenistic Egypt, Hermes Trismegistus (“Hermes the Thrice-Great”). He was actually a combination of Hermes and the Egyptian god, Thoth, also a psychopomp; both gods ruled magic and writing. The Hermetica, as well as other manuscripts and grimoires translated by European scholars of that time, covered not only philosophical matters, but gave instruction on how to work magic. I was particularly fascinated by esoteric spells to animate statues and control images; these would work very well for Fausto Corvo.

Ravens even appear in puzzling alchemical illustrations inspired by Hermetic writings, such as this one made by Michael Maier in 1618. Each phase in the process of creating the Philosopher’s Stone was symbolised by a bird; ravens stood for nigredo, or putrefaction, when all ingredients were cooked into black matter. The sediment at the bottom of the alchemist’s retort was called the “raven’s head” and when it began to turn white, the material was said to be entering albedo (white) or “swan” phase, followed by the “peacock” (many colours) and then rubedo (red), the “phoenix”. Once again, the raven is key to a transformational journey and a rich source of inspiration for stories and images.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the Tower of London’s resident ravens. The Tower was once their hunting ground because it had fresh prisoners’ corpses to feed upon. Rather than being chased off, the ravens were allowed to stay. A legend, allegedly harking back to King Charles II, warns that if the Tower’s ravens are lost or fly away, the kingdom will fall. Six ravens and one reserve are kept in the Tower at all times to protect it and the Crown. Apparently they are even enlisted as soldiers of the kingdom and can be dismissed for unsatisfactory behaviour. The flight feathers of one wing are clipped to keep the ravens from absconding, but aside from this, these celebrity ravens seem royally treated. According to the Tower’s Ravenmaster, they are not only fed on fresh fruit and cheese, and the choicest meats from Smithfield Market, but on occasional road-kill and biscuits soaked in meat blood.

Even in royal surroundings, the raven reminds us of a bloody past and the dark side of nature’s cycles. Humans need such talismans to explore our own shadow sides. If we do not grapple with darkness, we cannot undergo our own transformations and discover the light.

To celebrate The Blackhope Enigma’s US publication this week by Candlewick Press, Teresa will be hosting a competition to win a large hand-cut silhouette of the raven on its cover. For more information on this and other prizes, visit her Facebook page. The Blackhope Enigma is published in the UK by Templar Publishing.