Emotions in Europe 1517–1914, Volume IV: Transformations, 1789–1914 9780367210953, 9780429265464, 9781032007656, 9781003175537

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EMOTIONS IN EUROPE 1517–1914

EMOTIONS IN EUROPE 1517–1914 Volume IV

Transformations, 1789–1914 Edited by Katie Barclay and François Soyer

First published 2021 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2021 selection and editorial matter, Katie Barclay and François Soyer; individual owners retain copyright in their own material. The right of Katie Barclay and François Soyer to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-0-367-21095-3 (set) eISBN: 978-0-429-26546-4 (set) ISBN: 978-1-032-00765-6 (volume IV) eISBN: 978-1-003-17553-7 (volume IV) Typeset in Times New Roman by Apex CoVantage, LLC

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements List of figures

x xi

General introduction

1

Introduction to Volume IV

21

PART 1

The self

29

1 Excerpt from Elizabeth Wynne Fremantle (1778–1857), The Wynne Diaries

31

2 Excerpt from Marjory Fleming (1803–1811), The Handwritten Diary, Letters and Poems of Kirkcaldy-born Marjory Fleming, who died in Edinburgh in 1811, aged 8

38

3 Declaration, and associated medical report, of John Gibson tried for murder, 1814

44

4 Prints of Jealousy, 1817 and 1825

47

5 Solomon Bayley (c.1771–c.1839), A Narrative of Some Remarkable Incidents in the Life of Solomon Bayley, Formerly a Slave in the State of Delaware, North America; Written by Himself, and Published for His Benefit

49

6 Joseph Blanco White (1775–1841), The Life of Rev Joseph Blanco White

55

v

CONTENTS

7 Excerpt from Étienne Eugène Azam (1822–1899), ‘Periodical Amnesia; Or, Double Consciousness’

61

8 Hermine Hug-Hellmuth (1871–1924), A Young Girl’s Diary

68

PART 2

Family and community

77

9 Bernhard Christoph Faust (1755–1842), Health Catechism for Use in Schools and for Domestic Instruction (Gesundheits-Katechismus zum Gebrauche in den Schulen und beim häuslichen Unterrichte)

79

10 Daniel Webster (1782–1852), The Private Correspondence of Daniel Webster

89

11 The Confession of Mary Cole, who was Executed Friday, 26th June, 1813 at Newton, Sussex County for the Murder of Agnes Teaurs, her Mother

97

12 William Hazlitt (1778–1830), Libor Amoris; or the New Pygmalion

102

13 Letters from a variety of people to the Archbishopric of Dublin

109

14 American mourning jewellery, mid-nineteenth century

118

15 Fredrika Bremer (1801–1865), The Homes of the New World; Impressions of America

121

16 Henry James (1843–1916), What Maisie Knew

128

17 Egon Schiele (1890–1918) paintings of family life

134

PART 3

Religion

143

18 Johannes Hendrickus van der Palm (1763–1840), Sermon IV. Necessity of Divine Grace to Change

145

vi

CONTENTS

19 Religious tracts for children, 1830

151

20 William H. Neligan, Saintly Characters Recently Presented for Canonisation

159

21 India’s Women (1882)

165

22 Nineteenth-century Jewish music

171

23 Thérèse of Lisieux (1873–1897), Story of a Soul (L’Histoire d’une Ame): The Autobiography of St Thérèse of Lisieux

175

24 ‘How the Mohammedans keep the Festival of Mohurrim’, in The World’s Story: A History of the World in Story, Song and Art, Vol. II: India, Persia, Mesopotamia, And Palestine

182

PART 4

Politics and law

193

25 Edmund Burke (1729–1797), Reflections of the Revolution in France and on the Proceedings in Certain Societies in London

195

26 Political tears in eighteenth-century British prints

202

27 To the Spanish Army on the Occasion of the Entrance of the Uclés Prisoners to Madrid (Al Exército español con motivo de la entrada de los prisioneros de Uclés en Madrid)

206

28 Franciso de Goya Y Lucientes (1746–1828), For Having Been Born Elsewhere

210

29 Pompee Valentin Vastey (1781–1820), An Essay on the Causes of the Revolution and Civil Wars of Hayti

212

30 Charles Philips (1787–1859), ‘Speech of Mr. Philips in the Case of Guthrie v. Sterne, delivered in the Court of Common Pleas, Dublin’, The Speeches of Charles Philips, esq

219

31 Richard Dybeck (1811–1877), Thou Ancient. Thou Free (Du Gamla Du Fria)

228

vii

CONTENTS

32 Alfred Dreyfuss (1859–1935), Five Years of My Life, 1894–1899

229

33 Helen Sjöstedt, Women’s Freedom Appeal: A Complement to V.V. Heidenstam’s Citizen’s Song (Kvinnornas frihetsvädjan ett komplement till V.V. Heidenstams “Medborgarsång”)

239

PART 5

Science and philosophy

245

34 Philippe Pinel (1745–1826), A Treatise of Insanity

247

35 John G. Millingen (1782–1862), The Passions; or Mind and Matter

253

36 Charles Darwin (1809–1882), The Expressions of Emotion in Man and Animals

259

37 Antoinette Blackwell (1825–1921), Sexes Throughout Nature

265

38 William James (1842–1910), The Principles of Psychology

272

39 Helen Bradford Thompson Woolley (1874–1947), The Mental Traits of Sex; an Experimental Investigation of the Normal Mind in Men and Women

279

40 Havelock Ellis (1859–1939), Studies in the Psychology of Sex

288

PART 6

Art and culture

297

41 Augustus von Kotzebue (1761–1819), The Stranger: a Drama, in Five Acts

299

42 E.T.A. Hoffman (1776–1822), Beethoven’s Instrumental Music

307

43 Early nineteenth-century Scottish ballads

314

44 Alessandro Manzoni (1785–1873), The Betrothed

318

viii

CONTENTS

45 Estonian folktales

326

46 Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida (1863–1923), Spanish social realist paintings

332

47 Emily Lawless (1845–1913), With the Wild Geese

335

ix

ACKNOWLEDGE M ENTS

This project was inspired by our time working together at the Adelaide node of the ARC Centre of Excellence in the History of Emotions, and the collegial and intellectual networks gained from that experience. We would like to thank many of our colleagues in the centre and beyond for the research that highlighted the importance of particular sources, for offering us source material for this collection, for checking translations, and more. We are particularly grateful to: Susan Broomhall; Kirk Essary; Nina Koefoed; Ina Lindblom; Dolly MacKinnon, Una McIlvenna; Dana Rehn; Yann Rodier; Deborah Simonton; Raisa Toivo; Kaarle Wirta; and Ghil’ad Zuckermann. Thanks also to the various archives and collections that have made their materials available for this collection. We also thank our families for their support and patience, particularly during 2020 – a trying year for everyone.

x

FIGURES

4.1 4.2 14.1 14.2 14.3 14.4 17.1 17.2 17.3 17.4 17.5 22.1

Thomas Rowlandson (1756–1827), Jealousy, Rage, Disappointment, watercolour, 1817, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection George Cruickshank (1792–1878), Jealousy (London: S. Knight, 1825), etching, US National Library of Medicine Mourning jewelry, gold, glass, hair, mid-19th century, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Miriam W. Coletti, 1993 Mourning pin, gold, pearls, jet, 1862, New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Mrs. Alexander O. Burnham, 1960 Mourning pin, gold, pearls, jet, 1862, New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Mrs. Alexander O. Burnham, 1960 Brooch, hair, metal, 1847, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Miss Margaret Brearley, 1943 Egon Schiele (1890–1918), Mother with Two Children II (Mutter mit zwei Kindern II), Oil on canvas, 1915, Leopold Museum Egon Schiele (1890–1918), Mother with Two Children III (Mutter mit zwei Kindern III), Oil on canvas, 1917, Österreichische Galerie Belvedere Egon Schiele (1890–1918), The Family (Squatting Couple) (Die Familie (Kauerndes Menschenpaar)), Oil on canvas, 1918, Österreichische Galerie Belvedere Egon Schiele (1890–1918), Dead Mother I (Tote Mutter I), Oil and pencil on wood, 1910, Leopold Museum Egon Schiele (1890–1918), Young Mother (Junge mutter), Oil on canvas, 1914, Private collection, Vienna Joseph Sulzer, Schir Zion: Gesämge für den israelilischen Gottesdiensl von Salomon Sulzer, 2 vols (Frankfurt: J. Kauffman, 1922), ii, p. 255, no. 339 xi

48 48 119 119 120 120 135 136 137 138 139 171

FIGURES

26.1 26.2 26.3 26.4 28.1 46.1 46.2 46.3

Political Weeping Willow, paper etching, British, 1791, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection John Nixon (c.1760–1818), The Wrangling Friends or Opposition in Disorder, etching, British, 1791, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection Charles Ansell (1794–1881), Tears of Sensibility – Sympathy a Poem – Let’s all be Unhappy Together, paper etching, British, 1797, Yale Center for British Art Sympathy or Paddy Bull’s – Appeal to Gentlemen of Feeling, etching, British, 1798, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection Franciso de Goya y Lucientes (1746–1828), For Having Been Born Elsewhere, Spanish, watercolour, 1810–1811, Museo de Prado Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida (1863–1923), White Slave Trade (Trata de blancas), Oil on canvas, 1895, Museo Sorolla, Madrid Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida (1863–1923), Another Marguerite! (Otra Margarita!), Oil on canvas, 1892, Mildred Lane Kemper Art Museum Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida (1863–1923), And They Still Say Fish is Expensive! (Aún dicen que el pescado es caro), Oil on canvas, 1894, Museo De Prado

xii

203 204 204 205 211 333 333 334

GE NERAL INTROD UCTI ON Katie Barclay and François Soyer

The history of emotions is a flourishing field that seeks to understand how emotions, and things that resemble them in historic societies, are defined and categorised in different times and places, and what difference that makes to human experience. Scholars working in this area have come from a range of disciplines – history, art history, music, film studies, theatre, philosophy, literary studies, linguistics, anthropology, sociology, and more – producing an array of studies that deploy a wide variety of sources and methodological approaches. As with other historical topics, there is no single type of source useful for uncovering emotions. Rather emotions, or something like them, can be found in most areas of life and so can be found in all sorts of source materials. This four-volume collection of sources for the history of emotions provides a diverse range of sources that survive for Europe and its empires between 1517 and 1914. Given the scope of the topic, it cannot hope to capture every type of source, or indeed represent every group. Rather, the collection collates a range of sources where emotions, passions, affections and similar experiences were explored or used by individuals and groups, with the goal of providing a resource that acts as a starting point for conducting research in the history of emotions. The sources, grouped into thematic sections, are intended to highlight how emotions might be identified in sources of different periods, and the themes and issues to which emotions scholarship offers insight. There are now several resources that provide methodologies and approaches to working with emotions in historical sources and this collection is designed to be used alongside them, for those seeking to expand their skills and knowledge in this area.1 This general introduction to the volumes complements this work by offering a brief overview of what the history of emotions is, the way scholarship has developed in the field (especially in relation to the thematic sections that order the collection), some methodologies and approaches that are helpful when working with sources, and finally some insight into the scope and logic of the four volumes. Each volume, divided by historical period, contains its own separate introduction that places its sources in their specific contexts.

1

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

What is the history of emotions? What is an emotion? The answer may appear simple: emotions are feelings like love, joy, anger or fear, but an emotion has been defined by psychological research variously as a feeling in the body, a mental state that results in a specific physiological reaction and behaviour, or a cognitive judgment caused by a stimulus resulting in an emotion. Emotions have been divided into two categories by contemporary science: ‘basic’ emotions associated with facial and gestural displays of emotions such as joy, sadness and anger, for example, and ‘complex’ emotions such as surprise, hate, shame and contempt. Mixed or even seemingly conflicting emotional states have also been identified, for instance fear and awe, or horror and fascination.2 Nevertheless, there still remains much to learn about emotions and scientists continue to seek to understand their origins and how they relate to the body. A comprehensive review of the existing scientific data produced by neuroscientists recently concluded that there exists little concrete evidence proving that emotion categories originate in a particular section or area of the brain, but how they are produced through the body is still a topic of exploration.3 Whilst historians of emotions are interested in emotions as such and how they have been understood at different historical moments, their focus extends further to consider another question: how have emotions shaped individuals, societies and cultures in the past? Compared to other historical methodologies, the history of emotions is a relatively recent development. In the first half of the twentieth century, a number of eminent scholars pointed to the significance of emotions as drivers of historical change. Seeking to account for the rise of Nazism, the French historian Lucien Febvre encouraged his fellow historians to study emotions and the ‘irrational’, what he termed the history of ‘sensibility’ (sensibilité). Febvre passionately argued in 1941 that ‘the emotional life [is] always ready to overflow into the intellectual life . . . ; [people might say:] The history of hate, the history of fear, the history of cruelty, the history of love; stop bothering us with this unexciting literature! But that unexciting literature [. . .] will tomorrow have turned the universe into a fetid charnel house’.4 Even before Febvre, Johan Huizinga and Nobert Elias were influenced by Freudian psychoanalysis to assign a major role to emotions in a perceived shift from the medieval to the modern period. Elias, in particular, perceived the change from a Middle Ages characterised by anger and violence to a more genteel modern period as part of a ‘civilising process’ driven by the emotion of shame.5 Whilst such early theories about the role of emotions in historical change are now subject to considerable critique among historians, the history of emotions continues to thrive as a historical methodology. Research monographs, edited collections of chapters and peer-reviewed articles on topics related to the emotions in history are appearing in seemingly ever-increasing numbers.6 Research institutes devoted to the history of emotions have appeared in Europe and Australia. Historians have increasingly engaged in interdisciplinary collaboration with neuroscientists and psychologists to further our understanding of emotions or mental states as part of a broader biocultural historicism.

2

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

Since the 1980s, the historians Peter and Carol Stearns, Barbara Rosenwein and William Reddy have authored influential studies and elaborated concepts that have helped to shape the History of Emotions. The Stearnses coined the term ‘emotionology’ to define ‘the attitudes or standards that a society, or a definable group within society, maintains towards basic emotions, and their appropriate expression; ways that institutions reflect and encourage these attitudes in human conduct’.7 Their published work on the emotionology of anger in the history of the United States has provided scholars with an exemplar and provoked debate about the possible class-bias in that work’s use of primary sources.8 Barbara Rosenwein, on the other hand, has critiqued the emphasis on standards in emotionology and focused instead on the concept of ‘emotional communities’, groups of individuals bound together by ‘systems of feeling’ where emotions are understood and valued, or not, in the same way.9 Such emotional communities, Rosenwein contends, can be identified through a careful analysis of written texts. Finally, Reddy pioneered the concept of ‘emotional regimes’, which he defined as a set of normative emotions as well as the official rituals, practices and emotional expressions that are used to express and inculcate them.10 Historians of emotions are confronted by, and seek to come to grips with, important and challenging questions about the nature of emotions. Are emotions universal mental states, which is to say biological and identical among all humans? Are they socially and culturally constructed, and therefore shaped by an individual’s specific cultural and/or social background? In her work on the emotion of fear, the historian Joanna Bourke has noted the complexity of this issue. Fear is felt, and although the emotion of fear cannot be reduced to the sensation of fear, nevertheless, it is not present without sensation. In noting that the body is not simply a shell through which emotions are expressed, the social contructivists are correct. Discourse shapes bodies. However, bodies also shape discourse: people are ‘weak or pale with fright’, ‘paralysed by fear’ and ‘chilled by terror.’ The feeling of fear may be independent of social construction, a one-sided process. [. . .] Nevertheless, emotions are fundamentally constituted.11 To the thorny issue of nature versus nurture can be added even more questions. Are emotions shaped by time and place? Did a sixteenth-century European experience love, anger or fear differently from a twentieth-century European? Did the words used in past centuries to convey mental states have the same meanings when compared to those used today, even when those words are the same ones? How did the meanings attached to words shape the experience of emotion and vice versa? Finally, to what extent are emotions really drivers of political, religious, cultural and social change? To answer these questions, or at least to formulate theories that could help us answer them and challenge many assumptions about emotions in the past, historians of emotions work with a wide variety of source evidence: words (texts/

3

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

poetry), pictures (paintings, movies, posters), sound (effect of music on people). They search for, and analyse ‘emotives’ (expressions that produce emotions), ‘emotional habitus’ (the embodied, partly unconscious emotional disposition of a group) and ‘emotional practices’ (the things that we do to produce emotion, involving the self (as body and mind), language, material artefacts, the environment and other people). It is perhaps unsurprising that, given the diverse range of sources used, the history of emotions gathers together historians with a remarkable variety of approaches. Some historians analyse ‘emotion words’ and how they changed.12 Other scholars have explored the history of medicine and ideas for evidence of changes in the way that people understood emotions and body to be related or how people practiced emotions in everyday life in a variety of different contexts (for instance in religious and political rituals, in private writings or in courtrooms). Some historians of the emotions have focused their research on a historical analysis of emotional norms and rules. More recently, the methodological spectrum of the history of emotions has expanded to include performative, constructivist and practice theory approaches.13 Whilst the history of emotions seeks to study the emotions of individuals in the past, it also seeks to foster a better understanding of what can be termed ‘collective emotions’ in history. This is a particularly problematic subject. ‘Mental structuralists’ such as Sigmund Freud (1856–1939) and Carl Jung (1875–1961) accepted the existence of a collective unconscious and they thus contended that collective mental states could influence individuals. For these early psychologists, there existed ‘universals’ and ‘archetypes’ of the human mind that, like instincts, could trigger such collective mental states. Examples of such ‘collective mental states’ were ‘war fever’ or the collective love for the leader that seems to power personality cults.14 More recently, some psychologists have interpreted collective emotional states as a form of mass sociogenic illness: a medical condition similarly affecting numerous individuals within a wider group.15 Yet the concept of a collective mental state is problematic for historians since it is difficult to obtain conclusive primary source evidence supporting the notion that individuals who appear to be involved in a ‘collective mental state’ actually experience the same emotion.16 Even though it is difficult to establish the existence of collective mental states using historical primary source evidence, there can be no doubt that those who exercise power in human societies have believed in their existence and sought to foster or enforce such collective emotional states. Historians of emotions have elaborated upon this concept by examining the role that emotions have played in the formation of communal identities or ‘emotional communities’. In his work on the emotions, the historian and anthropologist Reddy has coined the phrase ‘emotional regimes’ to describe such a situation, in which ‘any enduring political regime must establish as an essential element a normative order for emotions’.17 This is particularly significant for historians studying Europe in the period covered by these four volumes, which witnessed the rise of national states and national identities against the context of the Reformation, imperial expansion, Absolutism, the Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution. Between 1517 and 1914, secular 4

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

and religious authorities invested considerable resources and efforts into attempts to shape the emotions of their subjects to bring about (or alternatively to prevent) social, religious or political change. The centuries covered in the first and second volumes of this sourcebook witnessed the growth of the modern European state system and what historians have described as the process of ‘confessionalisation’.18 Across both Catholic and Protestant Europe, rulers sought to secure the unity and loyalty of their subjects, and therefore their hold on power, by promoting among them a homogeneity of religious belief. By way of illustration, the Jesuit theologian and political theorist Juan de Mariana argued in his 1599 Latin treatise on royal government that a shared faith was the only ‘social bond’ (societatis vinculum) that could maintain social order in a kingdom and that lack of religious unity was a path that would inevitably lead to anarchy.19 Emotions such as love, fear, hatred and disgust were (and are) crucial to defining who belongs within a religious community and who does not, and so played a significant role in how this ‘social bond’ of faith was understood. Moreover, the period covered by the third and fourth volumes saw the rise of national identities and nation-states. In 1983, Benedict Anderson published Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism¸ arguing that the origins of modern nationalism are to be found in mass vernacular literacy, the movement to abolish the ideas of rule by divine right and hereditary monarchy and the emergence of printing press capitalism.20 Historians of emotion will add to this that it is impossible to understand national identities as anything but emotional communities sustained by ritual practices and supposed cultural and/or ethnic affinities. Indeed, what are national communities if not emotional communities? As this example suggests, collective emotions are important, not only because they move emotion from the personal to the social, but because they are therefore central to explaining historical change. In this sense, emotions are not just interesting experiences that provide insight into the intersection between the biological and the cultural but key to a broad range of historical subfields and themes.

Historical emotions A scholarship on the history of emotions is growing rapidly across time and increasingly around the globe. Doing justice to such a diversity of work and the sources they deploy is beyond the scope of a single source compilation, and so this collection settled on Europe and its empire between 1517 and 1914. This in part reflects that this period has now a rich and established secondary literature on the topic, that has in many ways led the field, marked now in a range of general introductions and surveys to this topic.21 This is particularly the case when we turn to the themes used to organise the collection: the self, family and community, religion, politics and law, science and philosophy, and art and culture. Viewed through these lenses, the role of emotion in biological and personal experience is significant, but as central is how the study of emotions brings insight into the operations of groups and societies, to the exercise of power, to systems of belief 5

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

and values, to the production of knowledge and ideas, and to human expression in its diverse forms. Both emotions and the ‘self’ are relatively novel concepts used to explore the human as a sensate and self-reflective creature. Yet if such labels have emerged only in the last few centuries, nonetheless Europeans have attended to what makes the person, including explorations of mind and body, emotions, passions and affections, motivation and will, intention, and many other similar concepts that seek to locate what makes the human. The history of emotions has contributed to a broader conversation about the nature of the self in different historical moments, whilst drawing attention to the important role that emotions have played in shaping concepts like will, motivation, morality, judgements, imagination and the capacity of the body to interpret information.22 Mental health and illness has been significant to discussions here, where ‘disordered’ emotions have not only caused people distressing symptoms but also been used as mechanisms of control and exclusion of those whose emotional world is seen as disruptive or disorderly.23 Over 400 years and the various language groups that distinguish Europe, historians have drawn attention to the various words associated the self and emotion, explaining what they mean in context, and how they have developed over time. Significant here has been a history of passions, affections and later emotions themselves, all concepts with distinct meanings in different times and places, as well as the history of how people experience individual emotions like melancholy, jealousy, love or compassion. As well as exploring ideas about the self, historians have also sought to explore how they were applied in everyday life or in specific contexts, like the practice of the faith, or by people of different genders, races or even ages. Words and ideas change over time, and so has how these knowledges shaped individual behaviours. Emotions are also things that people have sought to manage in various ways, using a range of tools to train the self to feel and so behave in different ways. An interest in emotion management has placed significant attention on the history of prescriptive and self-help literature, a form that existed across this period if changing in style and the nature of advice given.24 However, perhaps the predominant source to which a history of the self and emotion has drawn attention has been what are called ‘narratives of self’, the diaries, letters, oral histories and other forms of personal testimony where people offered an accounting of the self. If prescriptive literature sees some significant continuities, narratives of self can vary enormously over time. Diaries are rare in the sixteenth century, but expand dramatically in the following centuries. Letters are an ancient form, but survival rates for different groups vary enormously, limiting whose voices are heard, and their uses evolve. Oral histories and similar data are a product of new scientific collecting activities from the late nineteenth century onwards. Such technologies, and how they were produced, shape the selves that could be narrated and so a rich vein of scholarship explores how such accounts relate to the embodied experience of emotion by individuals.25 Personal experiences of emotions, as this might suggest, are closely associated with ideas about what emotions are and how they work. Prescriptive literature 6

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

provided a useful source of information about how such ideas were communicated to ordinary people, as does a history of religious teachings. But to understand how knowledge about emotion was developed and changed over time, historians have tended to turn to a formal body of religious, philosophic and scientific writings. Much of this work was produced in formal ‘academic’ contexts, such as the theological writings of monks, the philosophical texts of academics, or the experiments produced by scientists in laboratories, and so reflects the ideas of those who had access to education, time to write and think, and means of publishing their ideas. When these ideas are compared, however, it is possible to chart a trajectory of changing ideas about the mind, body and emotion, as the emotions moved from the sphere of religious life to a secular philosophy and eventually to the laboratory. Here historians have emphasised both changes from passions and affections to modern categories of emotion, and new ideas of the body as the humoural model declined in favour of vitalities, nerves, senses and so forth.26 For all of the period 1517 to 1914, a focus on formal scholarship gave especial authority to the ideas of men, and typically elite and highly educated men, about emotion, with implications for the knowledge produced. As a number of scholars have shown, ideas about emotion were often used to delimitate women as especially emotional or irrational, and so to limit their role in public life. Increasingly, especially with imperial expansion, similar stereotypical beliefs were applied to other racial groups, where emotional expression was often used to categorise people as ‘civilised’ or otherwise. This picture should not be overstated. In all periods, a small number of elite women or ethnic minorities –a group that grew with every century – tried to intervene in such conversations, not least to counter their own oppression. In some areas, like education and child development, they even became particularly influential.27 Historians seeking to widen this conversation on what emotion is in particular contexts have therefore sought to expand definitions of what counts as formal knowledge about emotion. This has included looking at branches of knowledge that were influential at the time, but later discredited and therefore underplayed in formal histories of science and medicine. An important example here is the nineteenth-century practice of phrenology, a quack science but extremely popular during the period.28 Folk knowledges and practices also offer suggestive potential, although remaining an understudied area of research for emotions.29 The knowledges and beliefs of minority groups provide insight into subcultures or alternative systems of information. Significantly, such histories often bring a broader range of voices – those of women, minority groups, different cultures – into sight, not only democratising scholarship but highlighting how ideas that we later, in hindsight, recognise as important competed with a rich diversity of others during particular historical periods. As this might suggest, ideas about emotions are produced by groups and societies. This idea has been especially critical for historians of emotion who have understood the experience of emotion to be shaped not only by formal knowledges of how the body works but by socially agreed ideas and norms about how, when 7

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

and by whom emotion should be expressed, what that looks like on the body, whether such emotion is moral or immoral, ‘negative’ or ‘positive’, how others should respond to such emotional expression, and so forth. The practice or performance of emotion for most historians is understood as socially-constituted and so therefore informed by the culture and society in which it is experienced. Emotion is also an experience that mediates the relationship within the group. Family is here perhaps a central unit, which for all of the period of this study in Europe was expected to be a site of emotion. Family members were expected to love one another, and show associated emotions that might include loyalty, obedience, trust, compassion, and care; family members, ideally at least, should conversely not experience anger or hate towards one another. In practice, as a range of historians show, family was a location where people felt and expressed the full gamut of emotional experience available in any given period, and where the expression and experience of such emotion was informed by cultural ideas about what was appropriate or otherwise, as well as what an emotion – say love – meant.30 Familial emotions were also influenced by changing ideas about the role of family within philosophical and scientific writings, where parental love became a critical emotion that ensured the survival of the species and where child-rearing practices produced the emotionally mature adult.31 A key idea in the scholarship of emotions is that some emotions are especially ‘social’ and so designed to mediate group relationships, through providing an emotional connection between individuals. Significant emotions here include love, especially caritas or neighbourly love, compassion, pity, sympathy and later empathy. Different terms held different resonances at particular historic moments, but they share the quality of allowing, to greater or lesser degree, for people to commiserate with another and so to encourage people to act together to relieve suffering or reduce harm.32 For contemporary scientists, such feeling has biological value in ensuring human survival, but other periods too prized such feeling as especially moral or ethical. If this is the case, emotion could also be anti-social, with selfish and competitive feelings placing people in competition, sometimes encouraging violence or conflict.33 Following the lead of these variously sociable emotions, historians, then, have been especially interested in exploring the role of emotion in different group activities, as well as how these were informed by specific contexts. In many respects, a scholarship on religious emotion and another on law and politics are a subset of these larger questions around group feeling. Emotion has long been significant to religion in Europe, where the experience of the divine, or of moral rectitude, was understood as an embodied experience. As a result, people engaged in a range of activities to try and produce certain feelings associated with the divine, such as joy or peace, or to avoid those that were associated with sin, like anger or lust. These might include personal devotional practices, including prayer, worship, keeping a spiritual diary, acts of charity, reading and many others. They also included group events and rituals, such as attending religious services, group singing and worship, listening to a sermon, reading or teaching, prayer, 8

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

religious processions and engaging in ritual practices.34 Some environments, like churches, were designed to promote religious devotion, through their architecture, but also by including moving paintings of religious scenes designed to direct the emotions of their audiences.35 Religious rituals have often been of special interest to historians because they were designed to shape emotional experience, not simply through imagination or ideas, but through embodied practices, such as moving the body, eating or fasting, mortifications of the flesh, or similar visceral experiences.36 Thus, a history of religious ritual has provided important insight, not only into a key part of the lives of most people during the period 1517 to 1914 and how that changed over time, but also to how people imagined emotions to operate in general. Religious rituals and experiences were also critical to group dynamics. Not only did religious identities fragment and reform repeatedly in the centuries under study here, but they were key to the formation of communities and their boundaries. Thus religious practices were often designed to consolidate the group – inducing feeling as part of a group activity was designed to consolidate affective connections within the community and to reinforce a sense of cohesiveness. In this sense, religious practice often overlapped significantly with political identities, and indeed many states and their monarch co-opted religious rituals to consolidate their own power. For example, a king might hold public baptisms of converts to reinforce his own authority. As this suggests, many rulers during this period were acutely aware of the importance of deploying rituals to produce political and group identities, including that of the nation itself.37 Increasingly these activities were designed to bring together diverse communities, whether that was people of various religions, of different languages and regions, or – and especially as Europeans moved aggressively into the rest of the globe – people of different races and cultures. Yet, these were not the only political tools available. Propaganda, political writings, speeches and other forms of rhetoric were all designed to persuade individuals and groups of the nature of authority and its appropriate seat.38 More broadly, and following Reddy’s lead, the polity itself could be defined by the experience and valuation of emotion, where emotions viewed as wrong or antisocial could be prohibited in law or discouraged through less formal mechanisms, like shunning. Thus a history of emotions has attended to how the management and control of emotion has been used to produce power relationships, and their role in acts of resistance and negotiation.39 The role of emotions in the law is a growing field, not least in Anglophone contexts where the law was seen to be the rational counterpart to feeling.40 Who could experience particular emotions, or indeed control their emotions, has also been explored as a site of contest for social groups limited from power due to their supposed emotionality. Thus women used claims to their rationality to gain access to political power, and enslaved people highlighted their sensibility to argue for human rights. Emotions have played an important role in the history of rights-making, with social emotions like empathy seen to be deployed to persuade people to expand rights.41 Conversely, such humanitarian emotions have also vested power in some groups, like the middle 9

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

class or imperial authorities, over those who they are seen to ‘help’ or ‘care for’, like the poor or indigenous communities.42 If emotions are implicated in the production of power and the oppression of individuals and groups, their significance to communication meant they could also be critical to art and culture, where people sought to describe, imagine, reinvent and encourage humanity, including their feelings. In European culture, the efficacy of most formal art forms, not unlike religious belief, has been related to its capacity to move an audience. Some types of art were expressly designed with this purpose, while by the nineteenth century, philosophers were exploring art as emotion itself. Instrumental music was considered a special form of art, situated outside of language; for some eighteenth-century philosophers, music was the original mechanism for communicating before the invention of language – here people used the capacity of music to move people as a form of communication.43 Across the period covered in these volumes, people explored how to effectively represent human emotions in different art forms – whether on the body in paintings or in ways that ‘felt’ real to readers of novels. Art could also provide a pedagogic function, whether in encouraging religious devotion and so godly feeling, or in providing examples of emotional behaviour that people could use to expand their emotional range.44 As a result, art and culture has been used by historians of emotions not only to further our understanding of emotion in the realm of creative life but also for its insights into how communities imagined emotions to work in a range of contexts. Paintings of emotional expression on faces and bodies provide evidence of emotional gestures and expressions; instructions for expressive dance or the stage highlight how people should move or gesture to display emotion; the elaborate scenes described in novels provide insight into how people imagined emotions to work in particular contexts, such as courtship or during a riot. If art and literature requires to be explored sensitively – like fiction today, not all art was meant to reflect ‘real’ life – it nonetheless can provide access to a range of human experiences that often don’t survive elsewhere. Art and culture are an area where significant variations and inventions in genre can be traced over time. Thus, styles in portraiture evolve significantly, sometimes for technical reasons (e.g., new paints are invented) and sometimes because artistic fashions change; expressive writing adapts, with poetry and drama moving aside for an increase in prose works. The expansion of some art forms, like drama or music, reflects that these practices moved outside the field of religious practice into more everyday cultural expressions. Explorations of art and culture therefore raise particularly interesting questions for historians as to the role of genre in shaping the expression of emotion, and where the historian has to ask whether a change in a description of emotion reflected changing social practice or simply the evolution of artistic style and its associated emotional expression. Yet, if art and culture perhaps highlight such questions, such issues are pertinent for all sources. Thus, if a wide secondary literature in this field highlights the exciting range of directions that research can take in this field, new historians also want to ensure they approach their sources with appropriate concepts, methods and theories. 10

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

Sources and methods As a form of historical research, the history of emotions shares many methodological concerns with the rest of the field, where primary sources – the data that survives from a period which we wish to understand – are the critical building blocks for our debates and arguments. Therefore, like all historians, we attend to the conditions in which a source was produced and survived. This means asking who made it, for what purpose, and why did it survive, and then using these insights to inform our analysis of it as a piece of evidence. Yet, the history of emotions also raises novel issues – what does it mean to look for emotion in historical material, what counts as evidence of emotion, and how do we know when we have found it? Emotion, perhaps especially as something ephemeral, has therefore required the development of a range of concepts, methodologies and approaches to aid source interpretation.45 Perhaps the earliest approaches to the history of emotion focused on what might be called the history of science and medicine – of the development of the modern concept of emotion and its history. Where texts used this language and largely reflected ideas that the modern reader is used to today, this was a relatively straightforward exercise – scholars looked for the words and ideas that we recognised as related to emotion and explored how thinkers developed them. Moving backwards in time to the predecessors of such concepts was more fraught. How does a historian decide what to place in the ‘category’ of ‘emotion’? Passions and affections seem to describe similar concepts to emotions – they are embodied experiences – but they arise from a very different model of biology and contain elements that we would not recognise as part of emotion today. The decision to include passion and affection in the category of emotion was therefore a choice made by scholars today and one that another scholar might dispute or argue about. We might feel comfortable with that choice, but such decisions raise important questions about categorisation, especially across time and culture. At some level, we make connections between ideas or words because we think the overlap is close enough, not because it is perfect. In the history of emotions, this has led to one of our most significant debates – can we truly compare emotions? On the one hand, most historians accept that if we are to be a ‘field’ – a group of people engaged in a conversation on the same topic – then we’re going to have to be happy with a capacious category called emotion. However, we are less happy that it is useful to compare, say, anger with ire or choler. Some historians, rather, emphasise that cultural concepts associated with emotion should be interpreted strictly in context and comparisons kept to a minimum. Others, especially those interested in change over time, argue that if we are to create a history of emotion that such comparisons are required, even if we recognise their flexibility.46 For scholars who ultimately believe the body is universal across cultures, they also see such comparisons as helpful at capturing shared experiences across human cultures. One of the first things a historian of emotion has to decide therefore is what they are studying in the past and how that

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relates to contemporary concepts, and so the study of emotion often begins with defining the categories of research quite closely. Often the first place to begin an exploration of emotion is by identifying emotion words in sources and then building up a ‘corpus’ or body of emotion words. Today, with the availability of academic dictionaries, a scholar starting out has a significant advantage in identifying such words. If the vocabulary might be different from today’s, nonetheless the process of looking for the words would be similar to now. The historian closely reads their material, looking for emotional words, where they appear, why, and their impacts, and from that begins to understand what they mean. Importantly, not all emotion words relate to an emotional concept – like love or hate; rather, sometimes emotion words are words that have emotional effects in particular cultures. An example today might be child or terrorist, where the usage of such a term brings with it rich affective connotations that ‘move’ the reader or produce emotion. If these might be less obvious to a new historian, nonetheless the principle of identifying them through a close reading of the material and trying to understand their rhetorical impact remains the same. Such an approach is particularly useful for identifying and understanding particular emotional concepts, like love or hate. But historians might also be interested in why such words are being used in that particular source material and the intended effect of such writing. Here we might ask ourselves why a person was writing and what they wanted to achieve by doing so. Was this a personal spiritual diary designed for them to reflect on their relationship with God and therefore bring themselves closer to the divine? Or was this a political pamphlet designed to persuade a reader to a revolutionary action? Understanding the relationship between emotion words and their uses for particular purposes can help us better understand how emotions are meant to work in a particular culture. For example, if a spiritual diary described grief at personal sin at considerable length, then we might learn about the importance of the emotions of contrition to becoming closer to God. Similarly, if a political pamphlet used the word love repeatedly to persuade people to a cause, we might better understand how people were meant to feel about the revolutionary cause in which they engaged. Sometimes we find unexpected emotions in such places, challenging our own modern ideas about the role of emotions in everyday life, or indeed see how emotions that no longer exist were used in historical context. This sort of exploration can be especially important for historians of emotion who are less interested in tracing meanings and ideas about particular emotions than in understanding what role emotion played in social, economic, political, and intimate life. Here the historian might be less interested in the exact emotion being produced than in how emotions are engaged in social action. Thus a historian might read a source with the goal of understanding its intended impact on an audience, and look for the emotional effects of a source. Doing so might mean exploring the place of emotion in texts that contain very few ‘emotion words’ (like love and hate) but still have rhetorical impact. It also opens up a history of source materials that do not contain writing – material goods, buildings, landscapes. Historians 12

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

may, for example, study a cathedral to explore how its design and features were intended to produce particular feelings in a person; similarly, they might consider how goods were exchanged in courtship or where clothing was worn to mark that a person was grieving. Here the physical and material world might become part of how people ‘do’ emotion and so useful for helping us access such experiences. Not all emotional experiences are immediately apparent in source material, especially when we are looking at societies very different from our own. And so historians have also developed a set of tools or concepts to help us identify emotions in source material. Such tools might be understood as a set of lenses that help us see things we might otherwise not have noticed, or ways of defining emotions that lets us recognise them in very different cultures. As noted above, these include ‘emotional communities’, ‘emotional regimes’ and ‘emotional practices’, alongside others like ‘emotional economies’, ‘affective atmospheres’ and ‘emotional arenas’.47 Each of these concepts has been defined by emotions theorists for use when approaching our sources, and they are helpful because they allow us to see where emotions might be operating between individuals or within groups. For example, ‘affective atmospheres’ describes the way that environments can shape human behaviour and emotion to produce collective feelings or group connectedness. A historian might therefore have a source where people at a pop concert all become overwhelmed by the experience, and can identify this experience as ‘emotional’ because it is explained by the idea of affective atmospheres. Another historian might find ‘emotional economies’ useful for highlighting how emotions, like hate, stick to people or things, and so inform how they are treated by others. An example here might be hatred towards migrants that ‘sticks’ to them so they are abused or assaulted in the street. A historian seeing a description of such an event might recognise that emotions were in operation in such an experience because the idea of ‘emotional economies’ helps them interpret what they have encountered. There are many such tools available and other resources that explain them and how they might be used with historical sources. Some more traditional historical tools – like the lenses of gender, race and class – might also be helpful in aiding analyses. Were emotions expected to, or indeed did they, vary across social groups? The sources chosen for these volumes have been selected for those coming to the study of emotions with no prior learning. However, it may be that further reading on emotions concepts might enable new or different readings of the sources in this volume and readers may wish to experiment and explore how applying such ideas enriches understanding of the material.

Emotions in Europe 1517–1914 The editors have chosen to separate this sourcebook into four volumes. Volume 1 spans the period between 1517 and 1602; Volume 2 between 1603 and 1714; Volume 3 between 1715 and 1789; Volume 4 between 1790 and 1914. Historical periodisation is always subjective and the editors recognise the choice of dates to divide these volumes might appear to be arbitrary to some readers. It is impossible 13

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

to pinpoint precise dates in early modern history as marking ‘turning-points’ in the history of emotions. Martin Luther’s publication of his Ninety-Five Theses, in 1517, the establishment of the Dutch East Indies Company (1602), the end of the War of the Spanish Succession (1714), the start of the French Revolution (1789) and the start of the First World War (1914) are all watersheds in European history. These events caused political, religious, social and cultural upheavals and developments in the early modern and modern periods that also affected the way that Europeans thought and wrote about emotions. As such, it is more profitable to consider that these four volumes correspond roughly to the sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In the sixteenth century, the impact of the reclamation of Greco-Roman culture and art as a result of the Renaissance can be seen in the influence of ancient authors on texts written about the emotions. Yet the Protestant Reformation, and the Catholic response to it in the decades that followed it, also had a major influence on the way that emotions were discussed in relation to faith and presented in texts and artworks produced in Europe. Emotions were understood to be central to a heartfelt religious experience. Moreover, the propaganda produced by both sides sought to exploit emotions and emotional reactions through ridiculous caricatures of the beliefs of others, narratives of victimhood and scenes of horrifying violence. Religious and political conflicts continued to plague Europe during the ‘General Crisis’ of the seventeenth century, but it was nonetheless also a century of intellectual exploration and discovery. The works of ‘natural philosophers’ (scientists) led to major breakthroughs in the way that Europeans understood the human body, the universe and the natural world. Some writers challenged ancient theories that linked emotions and the ‘bodily humours’ to contend instead that the ‘passions’ were the direct result of mechanical processes within the brain. Moreover, philosophers like Thomas Hobbes, Baruch Spinoza, René Descartes and many others laid the foundations of the Enlightenment. They examined ‘the human passions’ as types of emotion that are internal to the body and connected to the will as well as seeking to understand their effects on human society. In the eighteenth century, European attitudes towards emotions were increasingly affected by what can be described as a ‘cult’ of emotion, the ‘culture of sensibility’, originating in the idea that the body gained knowledge through the senses. The shift from humoural explanations of emotions in scientific texts, which had begun in the previous century, rapidly gathered pace as writers now increasingly favoured explanations that presented the body as mechanical and sensate. Influenced by philosophical and scientific writings, the culture of ‘sensibility’ had a lasting impact among the literary classes as well as across the whole of society. It is probably best known through the way that the culture of sensibility developed an English-language literary movement, especially in the emerging genre of the novel. Finally, in the nineteenth century, the way that Europeans understood emotions was also being changed by new sciences of the body, including evolutionary theories, with particular importance being given to ‘nature’ as a cause of emotional 14

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

behaviour. At the same time, however, psychologists were also seeking to explain human emotions as the result of cultural influences as well as biological drivers. The rise of nation-states and nationalism led to the search for emotional communities marked by a ‘love’ of the country/nation, anger and hatred directed at other national groups and sorrow and melancholy over real as well as perceived national slights and grievances. Rituals, artworks, songs and symbols – such as national anthems, flags or patriotic songs – were created to support these merging national emotional communities. The editors hope that the readers – both students and scholars – will come to appreciate how the variety of sources in these volumes illustrate the complex history of emotions in Europe across the four centuries that separate 1517 and 1914. Readers should note that, with the exception of those sources translated into English, the texts contained in these volumes are offered with the original nonstandardised spellings and some abbreviations. Where words and quotations are italicized, bold or underlined in the original documents, these have been carried over here. When we have varied from the original, this has been indicated at the appropriate point in the text. Inevitably, when comparing sources over the centuries, there is both continuity and change: continuity, for example, in terms of how emotions were deployed to incite love and hate, anger and sorrow, but also considerable change in the way that Europeans explained the existence of emotions and sought to understand their significance. Today questions and debates about the nature of emotions continue to be relevant and exercise the minds of neurologists, psychologists, sociologists and historians. The texts contained in these volumes serve as a reminder that we need to consider such questions about emotions within a wider historical context than just the late twentieth or early twenty-first century.

Notes 1 Katie Barclay, A History of Emotions: A Guide to Sources and Methods (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2020); Katie Barclay, Sharon Crozier-De Rosa, and Peter Stearns, eds, Sources for the History of Emotions: A Guide (London: Routledge, 2020); Jan Plamper, The History of Emotions: An Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015); Rob Boddice, The History of Emotions (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2018); Barbara H. Rosenwein and Riccardo Cristiani, What Is the History of Emotions (London: Wiley, 2017). 2 Bradley Irish, ‘A Strategic Compromise: Universality, Interdisciplinarity, and the Case for Modal Emotions in History of Emotion Research’, Emotions: History, Culture, Society 4, no. 1 (2020): 231–251. 3 Kristen A. Lindquist, Tor D. Wager, Hedy Kober, Eliza Bliss-Moreau and Lisa Feldman Barrett, ‘The Brain Basis of Emotion: A Meta-analytic Review’, Behavioral and Brain Sciences 35 (2012): 121–202. 4 Lucien Febvre, ‘La sensibilité et l’histoire: Comment reconstituer la vie affective d’autrefois?’, Annales d’histoire sociale 3 (1941): 5–20 5 Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994). 6 An excellent bibliography for the history of emotions can be found at the ARC Centre of Excellence in the History of Emotions website: www.zotero.org/groups/300219/ che_bibliography_history_of_emotions, accessed 22 November 2020.

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7 Peter N. Stearns and Carol Z. Stearns, ‘Emotionology: Clarifying the History of the Emotions and Emotional Standards’, American Historical Review 90, no. 4 (1985): 813–36. 8 Carol Z. Stearns and Peter N. Stearns, Anger: The Struggle for Emotional Control in America’s History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989). 9 Barbara Rosenwein, Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2011). 10 William Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling: A Framework for the History of Emotions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001); for discussion, see Anna Green and Kathleen Troup, The House of History: A Critical Reader in History and Theory (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016), 403–415. 11 Joanna Bourke, Fear: A Cultural History (London: Virago, 2005), 8. 12 Ute Frevert, ‘Defining Emotions: Concepts and Debates Over Three Centuries’, in Emotional Lexicons: Continuity & Change in the Vocabulary of Feeling 1700–2000, ed. Ute Frevert, et al (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 1–31. 13 Monique Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice (and Is That What Makes Them Have a History)? A Bourdieuian Approach to Understanding Emotion’, History and Theory 51. No. 2 (2012): 190–220; Katie Barclay, Men on Trial: Performing Emotion, Embodiment and Identity in Ireland, 1800–1845 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2019). 14 C. Jung, ‘Wotan’, Neue Schweizer Rundschau, III (Zurich, 1936): 657–669; Sigmund Freud, Massenpsychologie und Ich-Analyse (Leipzig: Internationaler Psychoanalytischer Verlag, 1921). 15 Robert E. Bartholomew and Simon Wessely, ‘Protean Nature of Mass Sociogenic Illness: From Possessed Nuns to Chemical and Biological Terrorism Fears’, The British Journal of Psychiatry 180 (2002): 300–306. 16 Christian von Scheve, ‘Collective Emotions in Rituals: Elicitations, Transmission, and a “Mathew-effect”’, in Emotions in Rituals and Performances, ed. A. Michaels and C. Wulf (London, Routledge, 2011), 55–77. 17 Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling, 124 and 129 18 See H. Schilling, Konfessionskonflict und Staatsbildung (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1981); W. Reinhard, ‘Reformation, Counter-Reformation and the Early Modern State: A Reassessment’, Catholic Historical Review 75 (1989): 385–403; W. Reinnard and H. Schilling, eds, Die Katholische Konfessionalisieung (Gütersloh and Münster: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1995); and R. Po-chia Hsia, Social Discipline in the Reformation: Central Europe 1550–1750 (London: Routledge, 1989). 19 Juan de Mariana, De rege et regis institutione (Toledo: Pedro Rodriguez, 1599), vol. 3, 421–426. 20 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983). 21 Susan Broomhall, ed., Early Modern Emotions: An Introduction (London: Routledge, 2017); Susan Broomhall, Jane W. Davidson, Andrew Lynch, eds, A Cultural History of Emotions, 6 vols (London: Bloomsbury, 2019); Michael Champion and Juanita Feros Reyes, eds, Understanding Emotions in Early Europe (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015); Susan Broomhall and Andrew Lynch, eds, Routledge Companion to Emotions in Europe: 1100–1700 (London: Routledge, 2019). 22 Thomas Dixon, From Passions to Emotions: The Creation of a Secular Psychological Category (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003); Katie Barclay, Caritas: Neighbourly Love and the Early Modern Self (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2021); Clare Langhamer, ‘Love, Selfhood and Authenticity in Post-War Britain’, Cultural and Social History 9, no. 2 (2012): 277–297; Laura Kounine, Imagining the Witch: Emotions, Gender, and Selfhood in Early Modern Germany (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018).

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23 Fay Alberti, ed, Medicine, Emotion and Disease, 1700–1950 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006); Allan Ingram et al, Melancholy Experience in Literature of the Long Eighteenth Century: Before Depression, 1660–1800 (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2011); Jeremy Schmidt, Melancholy and the Care of the Soul: Religion, Moral Philosophy and Madness in Early Modern England (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007); Katie Barclay and Bronwyn Reddan, eds, The Feeling Heart in Medieval and Early Modern Europe: Meaning, Embodiment and Making (Berlin: De Gruyter/Medieval Imprint Press, 2019). 24 Ute Frevert, Pascal Eitler, Stephanie Olsen, Uffa Jensen et al, Learning How to Feel: Children’s Literature and Emotional Socialization, 1870–1970 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014); Peter Stearns, ‘Girls, Boys and Emotions: Redefinitions and Historical Change’, Journal of American History 80 (1993): 36–74. 25 Diana G. Barnes, ‘Emotional Debris in Early Modern Letters’, in Feeling Things: Objects and Emotions through History, ed. Stephanie Downes, Sally Holloway and Sarah Randles (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 114–132; Katie Barclay, Love, Intimacy and Power: Marriage and Patriarchy in Scotland, 1650–1850 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2011); Joanna Bornat, ‘Remembering and Reworking Emotions: The Reanalysis of Emotion in an Interview’, Oral History 38, no. 2 (2010): 43–52; Alison Twells, ‘“Went into Raptures”: Reading Emotion in the Ordinary Wartime Diary, 1941–1946’. Women’s History Review 25, no. 1 (2016): 143–160. 26 Dixon, From Passions to Emotions; Robb Boddice, The Science of Sympathy: Morality, Evolution, and Victorian Civilization (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2016); Stephen Pender, ‘Rhetoric, Grief and the Imagination in Early Modern England’, Philosophy and Rhetoric 43, no. 1 (2010): 54–85; Lisa Hill, ‘“The Poor Man’s Son” and the Corruption of Our Moral Sentiments: Commerce, Virtue and Happiness in Adam Smith’, Journal of Scottish Philosophy 15, no. 1 (2017): 9–25; Elizabeth Radcliffe, ‘Love and Benevolence in Hutcheson’s and Hume’s “Theories of the Passions”’, British Journal for the History of Philosophy 12 (2004): 631–653; Kirk Essary, Erasmus and Calvin on the Foolishness of God: Reason and Emotion in the Christian Philosophy (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2017). 27 Matej Blazek, ‘Emotions as Practice: Anna Freud’s Child Psychoanalysis and Thinking – Doing Children’s Emotional Geographies’, Emotion, Space and Society 9 (2013): 24–32. 28 Thomas Dixon, ‘The Psychology of the Emotions in Britain and America in the Nineteenth Century: The Role of Religious and Antireligious Commitments’, Osiris 16 (2001): 288–320. 29 Jeffrey Watt, ‘Love Magic and the Inquisition: A Case from Seventeenth-Century Italy’, Sixteenth Century Journal 41, no. 3 (2010): 675–689. 30 Joanne Bailey [Begiato], Parenting in England, 1760–1830: Emotion, Identity and Generation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); Susan Broomhall and Jacqueline van Gent, ‘Corresponding Affections: Emotional Exchange Among Siblings in the Nassau Family’, Journal of Family History 34, no. 2 (2009): 143–165; Susan Broomhall, ed., Emotions in the Household, 1200–1900 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); Joanne McEwan, ‘“At My Mother’s House”: Community and Household Spaces in Early Eighteenth-Century Scottish Infanticide Narratives’, in Spaces for Feeling: Emotions and Sociabilities in Britain, 1650–1850, ed. Susan Broomhall (London: Routledge, 2015), 12–34. 31 Katie Barclay, ‘Natural Affection, the Patriarchal Family and the “Strict Settlement” Debate: A Response from the History of Emotions’, Eighteenth Century: Theory and Interpretation 58, no. 3 (2018): 309–320. 32 Katherine Ibbett, Compassion’s Edge: Fellow-Feeling and Its Limits in Early Modern France (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017); Margrit Pernau, ‘Love and Compassion for the Community: Emotions and Practices among North Indian Muslims, c. 1870–1930’, The Indian Economic and Social History Review 54, no. 1

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(2017): 21–42; Lynn Hunt, Inventing Human Rights: A History (New York: W. W. Norton, 2008); Jane Lydon, Imperial Emotions: The Politics of Empathy across the British Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019); Richard Ashby Wilson and Richard D. Brown, eds, Humanitarianism and Suffering: The Mobilization of Empathy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). Nicole Eustace, 1812: War and the Passion of Patriotism (University Park: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015); Stephanie Downes, Andrew Lynch and Katrina O’Loughlin, eds, Emotions and War: Medieval to Romantic Literature (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2015); Thomas J. Scheff, Bloody Revenge: Emotions, Nationalism, and War (Boulder: Westview Press, 1994). Yasmin Haskell and Raphaële Garrod, eds, Changing Hearts: Performing Jesuit Emotions Between Europe, Asia and the Americas (Leiden: Brill, 2019); Susan KarantNunn, The Reformation of Feeling: Shaping the Religious Emotions in Early Modern Germany (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). Phyllis Mack, Heart Religion in the British Enlightenment: Gender and Emotion in Early Methodism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 200); Claire Walker, ‘Governing Bodies, Family and Society: the Rhetoric of the Passions in the Sermons of Samuel Wesley’, English Studies 98, no. 7 (2017): 733–746. Sarah Randles, ‘Labours of Love: Gender, Work and Devotion in Medieval Chartres’, Emotions: History, Culture, Society 4 (2020): 374–397; Charles Zika, ‘The Transformation of Sabbath Rituals by Jean Crépy and Laurent Bordelon: Redirecting Emotion through Ridicule’, in Emotion, Ritual and Power in Europe, 1200–1920, ed. Merridee L. Bailey and Katie Barclay (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017), 261–284. Bailey and Barclay, eds, Emotion, Ritual and Power in Europe; Kiril Petkov, The Kiss of Peace: Ritual, Self and Society in the High and Late Medieval Peace West (Leiden: Brill, 2003). Francois Soyer, ‘The Public Baptism of Muslims in Early Modern Spain and Portugal: Forging Communal Identity through Collective Emotional Display’, Journal of Religious History 39, no. 4 (2015): 506–523; Alejandro Caneque, ‘The Emotions of Power: Love, Anger and Fear, or How to Rule the Spanish Empire’, in Emotions and Daily Life in Colonial Mexico, ed. Javier Villa-Flores and Sonya Lipsett-Rivera (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2014), 89–121. Amy Milka and David Lemmings, ‘Narratives of Feeling and Majesty: Mediated Emotions in the Eighteenth-Century Criminal Courtroom’, Journal of Legal History 38, no. 2 (2017): 155–178; Robert Cockcroft, Rhetorical Affect in Early Modern Writing: Renaissance Passions Reconsidered (Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003); Jonas Liliequist, ‘The Political Rhetoric of Tears in Early Modern Sweden’, in A History of Emotions, 1200–1800, ed. Jonas Liliequist (London: Pickering and Chatto, 2012), 181–205; Wadda C. Ríos-Font, ‘“How Do I Love Thee”: The Rhetoric of Patriotic Love in Early Puerto Rican Political Discourse’, in Engaging the Emotions in Spanish Culture and History, ed. Luisa Elena Delgado, Pura Fernández and Jo Labanyi (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2016), 39–55. Mary Fairclough, The Romantic Crowd: Sympathy, Controversy and Print Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013); Deborah Gould, Moving Politics: Emotion and ACT UP’s Fight Against AIDS (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009); Emma Hutchison, Affective Communities in World Politics: Collective Emotions after Trauma (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018). Merridee Bailey and Kimberley-Joy Knight, ‘Writing Histories of Law and Emotion’, Journal of Legal History 38, no. 2 (2017): 117–129; Kathryn Temple, Loving Justice: Legal Emotions in William Blackstone’s England (New York: NYU Press, 2019). Margaret Abruzzo, Polemical Pain: Slavery, Cruelty and the Rise of Humanitarianism (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011); Christine Levecq, Slavery and

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42 43 44

45 46 47

Sentiment: The Politics of Feeling in Black Atlantic Antislavery Writing, 1770–1850 (Hanover: University Press of New England, 2008). Lydon, Imperial Emotions. Katie Barclay, ‘Sounds of Sedition: Music and Emotion in Ireland, 1780–1845’, Cultural History 3, no. 1 (2014): 54–80; Jane W. Davidson and Sandra Garrido, eds, Music and Mourning (Abingdon: Routledge, 2016). Katharine Ann Jensen, Writing Love: Letters, Women and the Novel in France, 1605–1776 (Carbondale and Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University Press, 1995); Eleonora Rai, ‘Spotless Mirror, Martyred Heart: The Heart of Mary in Jesuit Devotions (Seventeeth–Eighteenth Centuries)’, in Barclay and Reddan, eds, The Feeling Heart, 184–202; Sarah Blick, Push Me, Pull You: Imaginative, Emotional, Physical, and Spatial Interaction in Late Medieval and Renaissance Art (Leiden: Brill, 2011); Stephanie Dickey and Herman Roodenburg, eds, Passion in the Arts of the Early Modern Netherlands (Leiden: Brill, 2010); Bradley Irish, Emotion in the Tudor Court: Literature, History, and Early Modern Feeling (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2018). For an overview see Barclay, A History of Emotions. For a guide to analysing sources for emotion see Barclay, Crozier-De Rosa, and Stearns, eds, Sources for the History of Emotions. Thomas Dixon, ‘What Is the History of Anger a History Of’, Emotions: History, Culture, Society 4, no. 1 (2020): 1–34. Sara Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2004); Ben Anderson, ‘Affective Atmospheres’, Emotion, Space and Society 2 (2009): 77–81; Mark Seymour, ‘Emotional Arenas: From Provincial Circus to National Courtroom in Late Nineteenth-Century Italy’, Rethinking History 16, no. 2 (2012): 177–197.

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IN T R ODUCTION TO VOLUM E I V: TRANS FORM AT I ONS Katie Barclay and François Soyer Nineteenth-century Europe was a time of transformation. The political revolutions that marked the end of the eighteenth century opened up new questions about the nature of governance and the polity. Not everyone embraced republicanism or democracy overnight; indeed, some responded in horror to revolutionary events, particularly during the French Revolution. But across Europe and during the century, greater space was made for a wider range of people, mostly notably white men of a broader range of classes, in political processes. In some parts of the world, such as South America, European colonies demanded greater autonomy, while those living under slavery or in unfree conditions fought for their liberty. Elsewhere, not least in India, Africa and Australia, Europeans consolidated their power at the expense of local peoples. This was always a violent process and accompanied periodic political unrest across the century as Europeans refigured their own environment. Critical to such changes were developments in science and technology, from the spinning jenny to the steam train to electricity, that transformed the workplace, the production of goods, consumption practices and travel. Urbanisation, where increasing numbers of people lived in towns, transformed local communities and social relationships, although for most of the century across Europe most people continued to live rurally and worked in agriculture. Towns and cities adapted to their new scale, offering a broader range of civic services, not least in entertainment and the arts with the growth in music halls, theatres and museums. Art and culture, but also other consumption practices, reflected Europe’s engagement with the world, whether that was the Indian jute industry that provided raw material for the textile trade, the fashion for ‘orientalism’ that influenced textile designs or the consumption of other cultures’ ideas and art for leisure and education. By the end of the century, national education, often compulsory, was rapidly increasing literacy, and culture expanded accordingly with cheap news and print increasing access to reading materials in all forms. For the middle classes, economic developments changed living conditions, access to fashion and leisure, and family life. By the end of the nineteenth century, some groups were more actively pursuing family limitation, decreasing the scale of kinship relationships, while the

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popularity of cousin marriage, in countries where it was accepted, consolidated business and land as it had in previous generations. Transformations are often emotional and many of these processes described above were accompanied by the fears and anxieties, excitements and pleasures, hope and disappointment that individuals and groups experience as they learn to adapt to new ways of living and being. During the century people expressed, displayed and used emotion in response to and to enable historical change. Conversely, emotions adapted to conditions. New family forms, for example, refigured family dynamics and the emotional investments that people placed in their parents and siblings. Political alienation was more likely to be experienced as injustice for those who had learned about the possibilities of democratic power sharing, and workplace dynamics were refigured when individuals moved from the close-knit connections of farms and households into factories of significant scale and size. If benevolence remained a significant social ideal in the nineteenth century, the loving ethic that had underpinned charitable behaviour in the early modern era was changing – helping others no longer required personal relationships, and indeed for some formal welfare systems offered a more fruitful form of care across social groups. The experience of emotion was shaped by ideas about its nature. If growing toleration largely reduced competition between Christian denominations, and by the end of the century, some places, such as France, formally pursued secularism in public life, the relationship between morality and emotion remained central. People read feeling on each other’s bodies and used such readings to judge character, morality and increasingly personality. The idea that pain and pleasure were drivers of human behaviour refigured happiness as a goal of contemporary life, enabled through good living – healthy eating, exercise, moral reading and leisure practices. Thus, happiness and suffering retained a moral dimension, where misery could be blamed on poor life choices, rather than structural injustices, such as poverty. An older idea of the deserving poor came to particular prominence under such conditions. Emotions were also being shaped by new sciences of the body. Eighteenthcentury thinkers had previously recognised the importance of ‘nature’ in encouraging certain types of human behaviour, like parental love, but evolutionary science brought much further-reaching implications for the operation of emotions. Emotions, for evolutionary sciences, were products of natural selection and survival and reflected deep histories over thousands of generations. Emotions, a term that came to take its modern meaning during this period, could be common to both animals and humans, and were a form of communication that could be widely recognised. That emotional behaviours might vary across cultures could be interpreted as reflecting different stages of evolutionary developments, or indeed – such as for men and women – that different groups were evolved for different purposes than others. Such ideas reinforced sexism, racism and a range of other political categories through rooting difference in genetics, and became significant to the eugenics movement, that wished to actively improve the human race. Later 22

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emotions thinkers, most notably the psychologist William James, would contest this absolute universalism, providing space for emotion to take cultural form, but nonetheless the basic biological drivers for feeling were retained in a long natural history. If emotions were universal biological responses, nonetheless, as psychologists and psychoanalysts were to argue, environment too might play a role in shaping how individuals experienced and displayed emotions. Many were especially interested in the role of childhood experiences in making the resulting adult, and psychoanalysts in particular suggested that critical relationships – like that of the parent and child – had to proceed in particular ways to produce a healthy adult. Without proper care as a child, the adult might not be able to manage their emotions in a sociable way, they might have a deficient temperament or personality, and critically, their ability to form ‘healthy’ adult partnerships, typically framed through a lens of heterosexual marriage, might be compromised. Responding to such challenges, pyschoanalysis and other forms of therapeutic counselling developed to help adults work through their childhood experiences and identify how they shaped their behaviour. Here psychoanalysts and other counsellors built upon a long and continuing tradition of self-help literature. Ideas in psychology were closely informed by psychiatry, where study and experimental observation of emotions of the ‘insane’ and mentally unwell had pioneered the study of emotion in the medical and scientific domain. While many nineteenth-century psychologists were to follow earlier scholars in emerging from philosophy, nonetheless medical case studies, and later experimental activities, were informed by work in the medical arena and shaped how the field developed and proceeded. The result was that emotion increasingly moved out of the domain of the moral and social to medicine and health. This reframing reflected the new term ‘emotions’ when contrasted with an older language of ‘passions’ or ‘affections’. The latter two were broad norms that could be pursued and managed by individuals, and that were part of social and religious life. In contrast, emotions were of the body and reflected its genetic heritage, including biological traits associated with gender and race, the upbringing of the child, life decisions, and eventually personality and temperament. Nineteenth-century people still had faith that individuals could manage their emotions, exercising self-control or discipline over the body, but the emotions that they experienced were personalised and not all were available to everyone. In this context, anti-social emotions could move from being immoral to deviant and diseased. Emotions were increasingly interpreted through the eyes of science but they retained an important cultural function. Emotional experiences were still pursued for pleasure, and they guided moral behaviour. The influence of the culture of sensibility could still be seen at the beginning of the century, when many Europeans retained a belief in the importance of sympathy to communication. Rhetoric remained a central part of education, and so the ability to use language – whether in writing or speech – to persuade people to a position or argument retained its cultural power well into the twentieth century. As a result, speech-making, whether in 23

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court, parliament or on the stage, remained a popular art form. Nineteenth-century audiences often had preferences for ‘big’ emotions, best seen in the rise of the melodrama or the ‘gothic’, where sensational scenes and acting were designed to produce feeling in audiences. The sentimental could also be found in a wide range of art and fiction where social wrongs, such as poverty or immorality, were used to produce pity, nominally to enable social action, but clearly also as an enjoyable leisure activity in its own right. Such pleasures were increasingly gendered, particularly towards the end of the nineteenth century. Stoicism flourished as an ideal for men, often tied into a growing militarism and the rise of ‘health and fitness’ movements that promoted a greater control over the self. This was not to say that men had no opportunities to feel, but that their domains of feeling adapted. Anger or aggression should be channelled into physical movement or military service. Love and care were reserved for the home and family, increasingly located as the moral heart of the nation. Such ideas shaped the cultural forms that men and women were expected to enjoy, although many studies suggest that in practice neither men nor women always conformed to such strict gendered ideals. Despite this, new ideas about emotion in culture eventually began to shape how people thought about themselves and their own emotions. Personal writings and creative practices demonstrate that such processes could be slow and adapted differently across social groups. Yet, by the twentieth century, the influence of ideas from psychology and psychoanalysis are evident among a wide range of the middle classes in Europe and beyond. A concern with folk song and story in the nineteenth century, often understood as a counterpoint to a cosmopolitan European culture, highlights that other emotional cultures were still retained in populations. Yet there too, stories and emotions adapted, or perhaps were prioritised, to reflect fashionable norms (e.g., norms about gendered expression of emotion). An attention to national emotion expanded in the nineteenth century, building upon suggestions made by eighteenth-century thinkers, but gaining greater impetus with a growing nationalism. Different nations explored what made them unique, often looking to the lower orders – seen as closer to an ‘authentic’ culture – for inspiration. A nation could come to have an emotional register, such as the sorrow and melancholy that Irish nationalists argued was a marker of their identity. Love of country also expanded as an ideal, and was encouraged through new art forms, such as national anthems and the redeployment of well-worn emblems for nationalist purposes. Ritual and ceremony, that had often previously been associated with the monarch, now were used to grow nationalist feeling amongst citizens. Such symbols in turn could be redeployed by political actors who sought redress or evolution in their national cultures, whether that was feminists demanding suffrage or private individuals seeking personal gain in courtrooms. A turn to the psychological did not therefore detract from the possibilities of emotion operating across the social body or groups. The nineteenth century provides a rich source base for the study of emotions by historians. If we have not discovered a coherent unifying cult to replace sensibility, 24

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this, at least in part, reflects that the scale of source material and social groups covered by such material has evidenced a diversity that has refused such an account. Personal writings, including letters, diaries, memoirs, autobiographies and a range of other personal narratives, survive in significant numbers and provide insight into personal feelings and emotional behaviours. Medical case studies, and later in the century, formal interviews and life histories by sociologists or similar academics, have also provided a diverse range of materials which provide insight into mental health, well-being and everyday emotional experience. Legal records, which often contain personal testimony, provide useful evidence of feeling, not least during moments of crisis, while they also enable insight into the emotional norms and ideals of legal systems, that often track with wider moral values and norms. Institutional records survive in significant numbers during the nineteenth century, not least reflecting the growing number of types of institution – including workhouses, hospitals, welfare homes, town councils and civic bodies, local government and parliaments, and universities. Many business records survive, providing evidence into the mercantile and personal affairs of families who often ran such businesses, and their employees. Such records occasionally contain personal accounts of individual feeling, but as significantly can be used to explore the emotional cultures of organisations, how that shaped their values and behaviour, and the impacts on workers and those who used them. Manuscript records survive for top emotions scientists, as well as their published writings. Print culture becomes increasingly diverse in the nineteenth century, as writers and publishers recognise a broad audience with an appetite for a wide range of materials. Genres expand, so that novels, plays and poetry can be explored in varying forms and for different markets. Newspapers multiply dramatically, not just in numbers but in the variety of their contents and the issues they cover. All of these sources provide information on emotions in everyday life, as persuasive rhetoric, and in shaping ideas about what emotions should and could be. This is also true of other art forms, where demand opened up more opportunities for patronage and sales. Styles of art developed, and some forms – such as those associated with women – increased in social status and so survived in greater numbers. Material culture sources are also available to give insight into emotional objects and everyday cultures of emotion. The nineteenth century is perhaps especially known for its rich culture in mourning, that has left innumerable clothing, ornaments and tokens of affection. As this suggests, the variety of sources available make the nineteenth century a rich period in which to explore emotion, and as such this volume perhaps more than the rest captures only a tiny part of the potential sources and themes that could be developed. As in previous volumes, sources have been selected based on their ‘emotional’ content as more readily interpreted by a reader with little contextual information. This has emphasised sources that use emotional language or words, are designed to persuade or motivate action, or which depict significant events that are suggestive of emotional life. A notable limitation for this period is that a much broader range of literature and writing was being produced by 25

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minorities and especially women, yet – as we did not have the skills or income to do significant translations of more than a few limited texts – the collection still leans towards work produced by men, especially outside of English language contexts. This is because these works are much more likely to have been translated in the nineteenth century, and highlight the differential cultural authority placed on different social groups during the period. Modern translations of a diverse array of women’s writings are now expanding (and remain in copyright), and we encourage people interested in pursuing this diversity to consult such editions. The writings of other social groups are becoming more easily available through source digitisation, but often require significant language skills. For this reason, the interest in peasant literatures, and their translations during the nineteenth century, provides a rare opportunity to hear the voices and culture of a group that can otherwise be hard to access. Translation in the history of emotions raises important conceptual questions. If emotion words shape the experience of emotion, and few words retain identical meanings as they move across languages, then how we might access the emotions of those whose languages we do not know is a challenging conceptual question. We therefore encourage readers to reflect on the sources that are translated here and how the process of translation might have shaped meaning. Here we might want to consider who is translating, when this work was done and for what audience, and whether the work is produced as a literal translation or something more literary, as a piece of original art in its own right. Visual sources sometimes appear to give an advantage here, but require cultural competencies of their own form – do we know if another culture would have read such images as we do? Cross-cultural communication of emotion remains a challenging feat even today, but also offers possibilities and imaginative ways to reflect on historical cultures that may seem familiar but are not. This volume provides a starting point into the history of emotions in nineteenthcentury Europe, and occasional reflections on some of its empire. By the nineteenth century, global connections make offering representative diversity an even more challenging feat than in earlier centuries. Studies of the emotional experiences and ideas about emotion held by a broader range of groups would no doubt enrich the picture offered here. Nonetheless, shared sciences, technologies and literature also ensured that this was a period where communication across cultures was easier than ever before. Emotions are individual, social, national and in many periods multi-national. This collection provides some starting points into this diverse range in sources and cultures.

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Part 1 THE SELF

Part 1 The self

Concepts of self in the nineteenth century were increasingly shaped by ideas from psychology and its associated disciplines, where emotions were critical components of behaviour and personality. If emotions always retained a moral dimension, medical ideas about the self and body became significant to their interpretation and emotions at the ‘extreme’ of normal behaviour could be pathologised as illness. Emotions could also reflect ideas about physical and mental maturity, and should, it was felt, reflect stages in the life course. If this was the case, such ideas filtered into everyday public discourse at different rates for different groups over the century. Moreover, growing literacy – and, by the end of the century, the rise in state-sponsored education – ensured that more ‘sources of the self’ – letters, diaries, memoirs – existed for a larger group of people, although still tending to exclude the very poor. This section has a particular focus on three areas: the history of the childhood self; the pathologisation of previously moral emotions; and the anxieties of travel and movement, particularly during moments of political revolution. The increasing survival of children’s diaries of the nineteenth century opens new insights into this group, while highlighting how changing educations in moral and emotional development evolved over time. Children have their own concerns, but they also evidence some of the wider anxieties of adults living in ‘interesting times’. The diaries of children can be compared with autobiographies by adults reflecting on their life experiences who use their feelings as a gauge of political events and as a shared identity with their audience. The impact of new ideas from medicine and psychology can be seen in such accounts, but also in criminal records and medical histories, as crimes of ‘passion’, especially jealousy, are refigured as illness, ideas that were widely circulated through popular prints. The nineteenth-century emotional self was in a process of transformation, as frameworks for mind and body underwent revision.

1 E X CERP T FROM EL I ZABETH WYNNE FREM ANTLE (1778–1857), THE WY NNE DI ARI ES Ed. Anne Fremantle, 3 vols (1935–1937), pp. 85–91, 188–89, 226–27

Elizabeth Wynne, later the wife of Thomas Fremantle, was an avid diarist, beginning at age 11 and running to 41 volumes. Some diaries also survive for her younger sisters Eugenia and Harriet. Most of the originals survive, and they were also edited and printed in the 1930s. The excerpts below are taken from the printed volumes, which selected key passages and combined entries from the three sisters. The Wynne family were an English Roman Catholic gentry family, who moved to the continent after the family estate got into financial difficulties. The French Revolution occurred when Wynne was in her earlier teens and her diary records the family’s responses to events as they hear the news – often several days or weeks after they occur – while living in St Gallen, Switzerland. Living with other elite families, many of whom were exiles from the French royal court, the source provides important insight into the anxiety and grief of the social elite as they watched their authority dismantled and some of their friends lose their lives. Written by a teenager, they also give insight into how her emotional responses were constructed in relation to her friends, families and other interests. … NOV. 15TH. TUESDAY. [1791] Papa continually suffers from his horrid gout which greatly torments him what can there be that is more troublesome than this horrid complaint, which causes its victim to suffer by day nor permits sweet Morpheus to spread his healing wings over the sufferer by night? I dined today with the patient. Mama is not well at all being unable to sleep at night on Papa’s account. NOV. 16TH, WED. Today is the feast of the Patron of St. Galles. In spite of this we did all our lessons. Papa is yet in bed is a little better since he has been in a great sweat. NOV. 17TH, THURSDAY. Mr Bombelles returned from St Gall. His servant told us that since Mr Barthese quarrelled with his negro (servant) he last 31

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night stole his masters purse where there were only four ecus and some rings in fact all he could find, and ran away with it, it’s a great loss for poor Mr Bathese who is very needy and has children and a proud wife who makes him spend what little he has, on her. This afternoon came here one of the deserters of the army of Mirabeau,1 he spoke to Mr le Marquis, and told him he had killed three men and required a bath of blood to which Mr B. answered he hoped he would not take his bath in his house; and to get rid of him he gave him an ecu of six francs. Mr de Regis had seen him today at Mde. De Louvois, and feared he wished to hurt Mr le Marquis, as he asked him the way and said he must absolutely come to Wardeck, he was a man of twenty-five years, very tall and strong and he had 14 wounds, truly this history frightened me a trifle, but my spirit was calmed when Capt Schalk arrived we were very happy to see him, gave him supper and offered him a bed which he accepted with pleasure I think, the wind was extremely strong and he would not have been pleased to sleep in Stadt at a bad inn. Mr Cimador gave him up his bed and his room. Papa is much better which makes us pleased and him gay. This afternoon we intended to make a walk the weather being fine, but all at once a great wind got up and we only went a little to the garden, and after dansed, played, etc, until the time for lessons, and when that time came we studied. Mr Jaegle makes us read an English book that is called the Vicar of Wakefield which is very pretty, interesting, well wrote and where there are some very good characters FRIDAY, NOV. 18TH. The new that Mad[ame]. Bomb[elles]. had today from the Princess Elisabeth that if all the emigrés are not returned into France by the first of January all their goods will be confiscated and they will be condemned to death gave much affliction, but we hope that it will be of no consequence. I shall say nothing of it, if one day I read in that newspaper I will perhaps judge better of it myself. SATURDAY, NOV. 19TH. The inestimable Mad. de Louvois came to us this morning she carried her brother with her. The new that she has had from the National Assembly do not force her to go back as women and children are exempted I am very contented of it as I should have been very sorry to lose her neighbourhood and society.2 As today it is the birthday of Mad. Elisabethe (sister to the King of France) to celebrate it we had tonight fireworks and drank some punch which was excellent. SUNDAY NOV. 20TH. This evening we read Olympe and Theophile (by Mde. de G.)3 We all cried so much there was not one of us that was capable of reading. [Eugenia says: ‘Mesdames de Bombelles and de Regis, Mde. de B, Lou Bitche and Betsi all wept there was but me that was firm.] WED 23RD. As the weather was magnificent we went out to walk and went in the afternoon until Roschach we wished to make some shopping Mde. de B. wished for some rose taffeta, we searched for a long time at last we found some in a shop that was down by the lake, we came back in the evening when it was nearly dark the days are very short now I am sad of 32

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it. For our lesson Mr. Jaegle gave us a french piece to make into german, Mde de Bombelles did the same she studies much that language I worked till supper with her whilst Mama read something from L’Ami des Enfants.4 After supper I worked again as I was not sleepy and that gave pleasure to the Marquise, Mr Lewis read us something until it was time to go to bed. THURS. NOV. 24TH. The feast of the patron of Roschach. We went to Mass not to shock the peasants but for the rest we did all our lessons. I think there are many too many feasts here for the peasants ever to be rich tomorrow is another it is Saint Catherine. 25TH. FRIDAY. SAINT CATHERINE. We went to Mass whilst Papa and Mama went to Horn. This afternoon I went a very agreeable walk at the Wartensee with Louis B, and the Baron de Loeben. At the Wartensee we drank some cyder in a cabaret, in a room that had wooden rafters which made a very pretty effect that I had never seen in my life before. There was a servant who laughed at us and an old woman that was the mistress of the house who was drunk. After having tasted the cider it was so horrible that I could not drink one glass. We did not drink a Kreutzer’s worth, and the Baron de B gave 15K, and the old drunk with her red nose did not give him back anything and said a thousand stupid things in her patois but I could not understand. We were there but five minutes and after the old humpback had told us to come often again (I will certainly not return there) we climbed up the hill until we were in the Canton of Appenzell we crossed the little boundary that separates it from the land of the Prince of St. Gall. Our walk took 1½ hours. When we were home we found Mde Bayer whom I was happy not to hear make music. SAT. NOV. 26TH. Mde de Louvois her son and Braun dined here, in the afternoon we dansed Mad. L. also and made several games she is very kind and amiable when she was gone we made our lessons. Suddenly after supper we heard a horn of the post, we were all very surprised and could not think what it might be, we ran out and the coach boy gave Mr de Bomb, a letter from the Prince of Spire, crys of joy are made, and Mama reads to us that the King (of France) and Monseigneur the Dauphin are in the Low Countries the queen is on the sea with Viomenil and Mde. Elisabeth with the woman Mommorit. On hearing this good news tears came to our faces of joy, but Mde. B anxious for the queen and for her princess wept bitterly. Now at last wil finish in a short while this revolution the king has 16000 austrian men with him, he is safe. Papa ordered some Punch we all stayed up late and we drank to the health of this prince. Mr de B. sent at once a copy of the new he received to Mad. L. Le Clergé when he came back said she went at once on her knees and thanked the good God. Many plans were made. Mr de B fears he will have to depart he wants and does not want to go at any rate he will wait for new orders. How much blood there is that will be spared? All that have the courage will now run after their sovereign, all the cowards will submit themselves the last time the King ran away they 33

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were quiet like sheep but when he was arrested they were again enraged. Amongst all these reflections Bitche cried out could Papa not make to walk his regiment? The poor child is colonel of 1000 men at Bitche. It was very sweet of him and amused us all. We wished to hear more new and Mr de B. will go tomorrow to carry the new to the Prince. Even the servants shared our joy they drank Punch. We went to bed at last fearful that we should not sleep for joy. Eugenia adds: ‘Never have I passed a happier moment nor enjoyed greater happiness than at this moment! What more can I require? In the breast of my family that I love and of persons that are become to me as dear as they. One thought only could have poisoned my joy, the fear that if their destiny changes we should be obliged to separate from them yes the ties that bind me, I feel that if I must leave them I shall feel the same grief as tho I should leave my own family, so greatly do I love Mr and Mde. de Bombelles. SUNDAY, NOV. 27TH. Yet another day that will be filled with the same subject that filled yesterday evening. Since some time we were invited to Mde. de Louvois. Papa, Eugenia, Mr de Regis, the Baron de Loeben etc. went in a boat and Mama with Mde. de Bombelles and the children went in the carriage. We found there the Prince of Diessendis, the great Bailiff of Harbone, the Colonel Keebach. Mde. de L. received us by shooting of guns which did not cease all day as she bought 16 pounds of powder and paid men specially for to let off the guns. She made this morning a pretty white standard, with the Arms of France worked on it. The dinner was excellent, the King’s health was much drunk, and whilst we dined there were musicians that played everyone but Mde de B. were happy but she could not stop herself from thinking of her mother her Princess and her queen. After dinner we dansed and we made a mascaraed, we stayed at Horn until half past seven and all came home in the carriage having been taken peasant’s horses. 28TH NOV. MONDAY. We were very uneasy today having no new. At last the post came but a letter from Paris dated the 23rd said nothing of the King’s flight and afflicted us much the Gazettes and other things said nothing also, Mr de Regis went off on horseback to St Gall to see if he could not find out something fresh a person writes from Bâle that the new has been received by an Extraordinary Courier. One cannot know what to believe but one is impatient and anxious. TUESDAY, 29TH. Mr de Regis brought no new from Saint Gall except that the Courier had brought the new to Bâle was from Worms. Mr de Regis told us that the Prince of St. Gall has sent 12 Louis to Mr de Barthese for what the negro stole from him. I was very happy to learn of so good an action on his part. On seeing him one would not believe what one hears of him that he is an excellent man and generous. We are still all very anxious for Mr de Bombelles King

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WED. NOV. 30TH. It is today a feast so we went to Mass the Saint is called Andrew. We went to Rheineck in the morning to Mrs Mesmer’s house she sings very bad she makes herself prayed like a great virtuoso but how disappointed I was when a screechy, small, trembling voice came out of her mouth I could hardly keep from laughing. THURSDAY, DEC. 1ST. Mde. Louvois came here to dine. Mr de B. sent the Abbé La Brosse to St. Gal to have the letters from France as soon as might be and to find out as soon as he could whether the King had escaped. Mama and Virginia were sick they went to bed in the afternoon. In the evening when we were all sitting together a letter was brought which a courrier had left in passing it was from the Bishop of Spire we feared it was excuses to say that the new he had sent us were not true but we were agreably surprised when we read that Valenciennes had surrendered its keys to the king and that he was in a castle named Rheimt, belonging to the Viscount de la Maucet that the queen had embarked at Dieppe to go to Ostende from where she will come to Brussels. Actually we had hardly any doubts But Mr de Loeben, who had been to Lindau to get new for us brought back the Gazettes where it was said that it was all a false alarm. In spite of the Gazettes and of a letter from Stoucart where it was said that the escape was false we had a few hopes, as for me I had many. I went to bed very late because they stayed up a long time talking politics and this conversation interested me enormously. I also read something of The Ami des Enfans of Berquin. FRIDAY, DEC. 2ND. I had only studied two hours with Mr Jaegle before Mde. Louvois came. M. de la Brosse was already back with the letters and the King’s flight is all an invention. This new gave me extreme pain as to all here it is terrible to have been so mistaken. But Mr de B. is truly the best of men how he reasoned on this subject! What philosophy he showed! it is impossible not to respect and admire him always more. I accompanied Mde. de Louvois to her house and she read me some verses the Abbé Robert had made on the birth of her son (which is tomorrow) and which were charming. All the servants will sing a couplet to him. Madam and Eugenia are still in bed. We played this evening but I was not happy. Eugenia: ‘Je pris une purge ce matin qui me fit beaucoup de bien mais ce qui me fit bien de la peine c’est que les Nouvelles apprenent qu’il n’y a rien de vrai pour l’evasion du roi.’ [I took a purge this morning which did me a lot of good but the News learned that there is nothing true about the escape of the king gave me pain.] DEC. 4TH, SUNDAY. After dinner Mde. D Louvois gave us an excellent gouté at Horn after we played it cards coming home I amused myself greatly as it was fine moonlight. When we were here back we wish to make a lecture but the convulsions of Frederick prevented it. …

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WEDNESDAY, DEC. 7TH. As there is not anything to say for my diary today I will write off the place that we are in and I will begin with some account of the peasants. These are of a really revolting vulgarity especially the little boys Mr Cimador can never go by on horseback without these nasty children making impertinences to the horse and everything that one does is very laughable to their eyes for they cock snooks at one on every occasion. Does one go a walking? one runs no risk of being bid goodday unless one says it first and that with the greatest deference and politeness. They are as poor as they are rude: I admired the uniformity of their Sunday best. The Castle is on a Hill not too high at the foot of which is the little village of Villerqui which consists of three or four houses and of that of the Chaplain and of the Church. We are surrounded with lovely hills and I greatly wish we may be here in the summer to enjoy the beauties of Nature. … MONDAY JANUARY 28TH. [1793] At last arrived to day the fatal News that we fear to receive since such a long while—Unfortunately Lewis Capet was executed the 21 of this month—It is useless to say how much afflicted the Bombelles are I easily conceive their Sorrow, being persuaded that if I was to hear of the King of England’s death it would certainly give me a great deal of grief, and I do not know King George and the B. were almost always with their King—The cruelty with which the vilains treated him is something shocking Poor Lewis I pity him sincerely. For the Queen and the rest of his family the french will take care of—I walked out today Every Body in the house is afflicted. TUESDAY, JANUARY 29TH. The Colonel Keebach came to see us the weather was beautiful I walked out it was not very Cold this evening I began to hope that the Winter will soon finish I had a letter from Lady Mary Blair they will come back to Switzerland next may. Leghorn pleases them much—the Marquis and the Marchioness were really very afflicted as for the rest of these french they were as gay as usual— With the News of the French King we shall not have in our power to dance any more all the Carneval. What a miserable dull and disagreeable life we pass here—If I could think that I would Stay a long while here I’m sure I would be Ill with Grief. … FRIDAY FEBRUARY 1ST. To day we received all the particulars of the Death of the unfortunate Lewis Capet He died with great courage and the Cruelty of The French on this occasion is really enough to make one hate that nation—The weather was charming I wish it would last so, as to go out a walking will be the only pleasure I shall have in my power to enjoy this long while. …

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FRIDAY, OCTOBER 25TH. The unfortunate Queen of France has been aiguillotiné the 16 of this month. She was condemned at three a clock and Executed next day in the morning. Lyon which had revolted and kept itself these three months has been now taken and thousand horrors are daily committed. The rogues of French will lay all waste except the manufactures And the Sans Culotttes houses. Mama is very uneasy as her father and mother which had remained in Lyon cannot be found by her niece which is now returned in town and searches in vain all her friends and parents. Mde. de Bombelles is ill. Mr de Bause and Badins from Constance came only to pay a visit. … MONDAY, OCTOBER 28TH. The cruelties and follies committed in France are incredible, and there are no monsters worse than those cursed Jacobits. No religion can now be followed in that kingdom you must take a damned one for Saint and the death is called le Sommeil eternal. I shall not attempt to give an account of all the horrors committed at the Queens death but there is no idea to what a pitch barbarism cruelty and horror is carried on by the infamous French. The Colonel Keebach dined with us. I had occasion to weary myself most dreadfully to-day. How I hate this place! TUESDAY, OCTOBER 29TH. I would be very witty if I could find any thing worth writing down that happened to-day. Nothing in the world!

Notes 1 The Black Legion of Mirabeau were raised in response to the French revolution to fight the Republicans. 2 The French National Assembly had ordered all those in exile to return home if they did not wish to be declared traitors (and later in the year) have their property confiscated. 3 Stéphanie Félicité, comtesse de Genlis (1760–1830). 4 Arnaud Berquin (1747–1791) children’s book.

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2 E XCERPT F ROM M ARJ ORY FLEM ING (1803–18 11 ) , THE H A N DWRIT TEN DIARY, LETTERS A N D POEMS OF KI RKCALDYB O R N MARJORY FL EM I NG, W HO D IED IN EDINBURGH I N 1 8 11 , AGED 8 National Library of Scotland, Edinburgh, MSS.1096–1100

Marjory Fleming was a Scottish poet and diarist.1 She was the third child of James Fleming, an accountant, and Isabella Rae. She died aged eight, after contracting measles, and left behind a series of writings that gained considerable attention during the period and since. Below are excerpts from her diary, which she wrote (aged 6–8) while living in Edinburgh under the tutelage of her beloved cousin Isabella Keith. The diary appears to have been kept as a learning aid, teaching her to form letters, spell and write, and the original contained corrections made by Keith and later underlines on words with errors. It is a remarkable source for childhood education and experience, not least her emotional responses to being disciplined and her efforts to be a better behaved child. The importance of spiritual writing to Scottish moral discipline is also evident. … The Day of my existence here has been delightful & enchantening. On Saturday I expected no less than three well made Bucks the names of whom is here advertised Mr Geo Crakey and Wm. Keith and Jn Keith, the first is the funniest of every one of them. Mr Crakey & I walked to Crakyhall hand by hand in Innocence and matitation [meditation] sweet thinking on the kind love which pas in our tenderhearted mind which is overflowing with majestick pleasure nobody was ever so polite to me in the hole state of my existence.

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MARJORY FLEMING, THE HANDWRITTEN DIARY

Mr Craky you must know a great Buck & pretty goodlooking I am at Ravelston enjoying natures fresh air the birds are singing sweetly the calf doth frisk and play and nature shows her glorious face, the sun shines through the trees, it as delightful [Wednesday . . . . Thursday, July 12th . . . Notes by an adult, presumably Isa Keith] I confess I have been more like a little young Devil then a creature for when Isabella went up the stairs to teach me religion and my multiplication and to be good and all my other lessons I stamped with my feet and threw my new hat which she made on the ground and was sulky and was dreadfully passionate but she never whipped me but gently said Marjorie go into another room and think what a great crime you are committing letting your temper get the better of you but I went so sulkily that the Devil got the better of me but she never never whipped me so that I thinke I would be the better of it and the next time that I behave ill I think she should do it for she never does it but she is very indulgent to me but I am very ungrateful to hir Sunday 4 Wednesday. ToDay I have been very ungrateful and bad and disobedient, Isabella gave me my writing I wrote so ill that she took it away and locked it up in her desk where I stood trying to open it till she made me come and read my bible but I was in a bad humour and read so carelessly and ill that she took it from me and her blood ran cold but she never punished me she is as gental as a lamb to me an ungrateful girl Isabella has given me praise for checking my temper for I was sulkey even when she was kneeling an hole hour teaching me to write Yesterday I behave extremely ill in God’s most holy charge for I would never attend my self nor let Isabella attend which was a great crime for she often often tells me that when to or three are geathered together God is in the midst of them and it was the very same Divel that tempted Job that tempted me I am sure but he resisted satan though he had boils and many many other misfortunes which I have escaped. I am now going to tell you about the horrible and wicked plaege [plague] that my multiplication gives me you cant conceive it the most Devilish thing is 8 times and 7 times it is what nature itself cant endure I have a delightful pleasure in view which is the thoughts of going to Braehead where I will walk to Craky hall wich puts me in mind that I walked to that delightfull place with a delightful young man beloved by all his friends and espacially by me his loveress but I must not talk any longer about him for Isa said it is not proper for to speak of gentalmen but I will never forget him I hope that at 12 or 13 years old I will be as learned as Miss Isa and Nancy Keith for many girls have not the advantage I have and I am very very glad that satan has not geven me boils and many other misfortunes in the holy bible these words are written that the Devel goes about like a roaring lyon in search of his pray but the lord lets us escape from him but we sometimes do not strive with this awfull spirit ToDay I pronounced a word which should never come out of a lady’s lips it was that I called John a Impudent Bitch and Isabella afterwards told me that I should

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never say it even in joke but she kindly forgave me because I said that I would not do it again I will tell you what I think made me in so bad a homour is I got 1 or 2 cups of that bad bad sinatea to Day Last night I behaved extremely ill and threw my work in the stairs and would not pick it up which was very wrong indeed; and all that William could do I would not go out of the room till he himself put me out and I roared like a bull and would not go to bed tho Isabella bid me go which was very wrong indeed to her when she takes so much pains with me when she would like best to be walking but she thinks it her duty As this is Sunday I must begin to write serious thoughts as Isabella bids me I am thinking how I should improve the many talents I have. I am very sory I have threwn them away it is shoking to think of it when many have half the instruction I have because Isabella teaches me to or three hours every day in reading and writing and arithmatick and many other things and religion into the bargan. On sunday she teaches me to be virtuous Ravelston is a fine place because I got balm wine and many other dainties and it is extremely pleasant to me by the company of swine geese cocks &c and they are the delight of my heart. I was at a race toDay & liked it very much but we missed one of the starts which was very provoaking indeed but I cannot help it so I must not complain Lord Mongumorys horse gained it but I am clattering so I will turn the subject to another think but no I must git my spelling first I acknowledge that this page is far from being well written Isabella teaches me my lessons from ten till two every day and I wonder she is not tired to death with me for my part I would be quite Impatient if I had a child to teach It was a dreadfull thing that Haman was hanged on the gallows which he had prepared for Mordica to hang him and his ten sons thereon & it was very wrong and cruel to hang his sons because they did not commit the crime but then Jesus was not then come to teach us to be Mercifull2 Yesterday I behaved exceedingly ill and what is Worse of all is when Isabella told me not to let my temper get the better of me but I did not mind her and sinned away which was very naughty Yesterday the thunder bolts roled mightily over the hils it was very Majestick, but to Day there has been no thunder, but I will speak about another thing. Yesterday I am very glad to say a young Cocker came to our house to stay, it is a very beautiful & it is named Crakey it was Isabella that named him & white & black is its coualer but all the white will come off is not that wonderfull. This is Saturday & I am very glad of it because I have play half of the day & I get mony too but alas I owe Isabella 4 pence for I am finned 2 pence whenever I bite my nails Isa is teaching me to make Simecolings3 nots of interrigations4 peorids & commoes5 &c As this is Sunday I will Meditate uppon senciable and religious subjects first I should be very thankful that I am not a beggar as many are I get my poetry now 40

MARJORY FLEMING, THE HANDWRITTEN DIARY

out of grey & I think it beautiful and Majestick but I am sorry to say that I think it is very Difficult to get by heart but we must bear it well. I hope that Isabella will have the goodness to teach me Geogrifie Mathematicks & Fractions &c The Scythians tribe lives very easily for a Gluton Introdused to Arsaces the Captain of the Armey, 1 man who Dressed hair & another man who was a good cook but Arsaces said that he would keep I for brushing his horses tail, and the other to fead his pigs6 Dear Isa is very indulgent to me, for which usage I am sorrow to say, that I am always doing something or other ill which is very naughty, is it not. It is Malancholy to think, that I have so many talents, & many there are that have not had the attention paid to them that I have, & yet they contrive to better thin me. Mrs Crafenot has a dog & I believe it is as beautifull as any in good Old England. I am sure; & she had 5 pups but they are all drowned but 1. Now am I quite happy for I am going tomorrow to a delightfull place. Breahead by name, belonging to Mrs Crraford, where their is ducks cocks hens bubbyjocks7 2 dogs 2 cats & swine, which is delightful. I think it is shoking to think that the dog & cat should bear them and they are drowned after all. I would rather have a man dog then a woman dog because they do not bear like women dogs, it is a hard case it is shoking. I came here as I thought to enjoy natures delightful breath it is sweeter than a fiat of rose Oil but Alas my hopes are disopointed, it is always spitring but then I often get a blink & then I am happy Every Morn I awake before Isa & Oh I wish to be up & out with the lurkie but I must take care of Isa who when aslipe is as beautifull as Viness & Jupiter in the skies; ToDay I affronted myself before Miss Margret & Miss Isa Crawford Mrs Crawford & Miss Kermical which was a very nauty but I hope that there will be no more ever in all my Journal; ToDay is Saturday & I sauntered about the woulds & by the burn side I dirtied myselfe which puts me in mind of a song my mother composed it was that she was out & dirtied herself which is like me; I am very sory to say the I forgot God that is to say I forgot to pray today & Isabella told me that I should be thankful that he did not forget me if he did O what would become of me if I was in danger & God not friends with me I must go to unquenchiable fire & if I was tempted to sin hou could I resist it I will never do it again no no not if I can help it. I am going to tell you of a malancholy story A young Turkie of 2 or 3 month old would you believe it the father break its leg & he killed another I think he should be transported or hanged. Will the sarvant has buried the Turkie & put a tomeston & written, this in memory of the young Turkie I’m going to tell you that in all my life never behaved so ill for when Isa bid me go out of the room I would not go & when Isa came to the room I threw my book 41

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at her in a dreadful passion & she did not lick me but said go into room & pray & I did it I will never do it again I hope that I will never afront Isa for she said that she was never so afronted in her life but I hope it will never happen again We expect Nancy tomorrow I am happy she is coming but I would be still happer if I behaved better but I will be better. I got a young bird & I have tamed it & it hopes on my finger Alas I hav promised it to Miss Bonner & the age is here & little Dickey is in it. Now a hour shal I receive Nancy after behaving so ill I tremble at it, it is dreidful to think of it, it is. I am going to turn over a new life & I’m going to be a very good girl & be obedient to Isa Keith, here there is planty of goosbery which makes my teath watter. Yesterday there was campony. Mr & Mrs Bonner & Mr Philip Caddle who paid no little attention to me he took my hand and led me down stairs & shook my hand cordialy A servant tried to pioson mistress & 2, 3 children, what a dreadful concience she must have. Isabella is by far too indulgent to me & even the Miss Crafords say that they wonder at her patience with me & it is indeed true for my temper is a bad one My religion is greatly falling off because I don’t pray with so much attention when I am saying my prayers & my character is lost a mong the Breahead people I hope I will be religious again but as for regaining my charecter I despare for it Isa bids me give you a note of the sermon preached by Mr Bonner it was that we should ofor ourselves to God morning and evening & then we will be happy with God if we are good. A Breahead there is a number of pictures & some have monstrous large wigs. Every body just now hates me & I deserve it for I dont behave well, I will never again trust in my own power for Isa that I cannot be good without Gods assistance, I will trust in my selfe & it Isas health will be quite ruined by me it will indeed, I can never repay Isabella for what she has done but by good behave-our If I am good I will be happy but if I am bad I will be unhappy Isa has giving me advice which is that when I feal Satan begining to tempt me that I flea from him & he would flea from me. John is gone to Queensferry to meat servent Willman, It is far better to behave well than ill. Let me give you a note of the sarmon it is that if we are determined to be good & try to be so that we will always succeed for God when he seas that we are trying will assist us Many people say that it is difficult to be good but it is they will not try to do it. The best way to be good is to pray to God to give us assistence & if he gives us his assistence I can say that I will be good & we should never mind punishment of it is to do us good & it is better to bare punishment if it is to save us from brimston & fire, We are reading a book about a man who went into a house & he saw a sack & he went & look into it & he saw a dead body in it. 42

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Marjorie must write no more journal till she writes better. [? Isa Keith, followed by exercises where she writes the same words repeatedly, e.g. communications, communications, communications . . .] I know that if I try truly to be good God will healp me to be so & with his help alone can we behave well indeed it is true & every body will see so, Nancy is too indulgent & as to Isa I could not find one like her though I was to search the world indeed people must say that, or they will be false people but I do not think they will be so [Letter m written repeatedly as an exercise] This is Thursday & it was frosty but the sun shins in all its beauty it is very romantick indeed, Isabella and Miss Isabella Craford walks to Baronbugal & jump with filisity8 over wals and fences, Life is indeed prasious to thos who are good because the are hapy & good indeed Remorse is the worst thing to bear & I am afraid that I will fall a marter to it when I am going to Kerkaldy & to my poor mother, again I will tell you why it is that I have thrown away many advantages that others have not therefore I think I will fall a victom to remorse; There is four You treas9 & Isa caled 1 of them Lot and his wife

Notes 1 Where spelling has been corrected, I have used the corrected spelling. Where it has not been corrected, the original spelling is used. The full diary can be found online here: https://digital.nls.uk/marjory-fleming/archive/100989323#?c=0&m=0&s=0&cv=4&x ywh=-545%2C-1%2C3588%2C2954 2 This story is found in the Bible in the book of Esther. 3 semi-colons 4 notes of interrogation, e.g. question mark 5 commas 6 This refers to stories associated with Arsaces, the founder of the Parthian Empire. 7 turkeys 8 felicity 9 Yew trees

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3 DECLARATION , AND A SSOCIATED M EDIC AL REPORT, O F J OHN GIBS ON TRI ED FOR M URDER, 18 1 4 National Records of Scotland, Edinburgh JC26/366

This declaration, what would have in earlier decades been called a confession, was taken from John Gibson as part of a murder investigation into the death of Janet Renwick, his wife. The Gibson household was a lower-order family of textile workers during a period of rapid industrialisation in Hawick, Scotland. The case was later tried by the Justiciary Court, the highest criminal court in Scotland. In his testimony, given before a Sheriff officer and medical observer, and transcribed and edited by clerk, Gibson details how he killed his wife having experienced jealousy at her behaviour. The medical observer thought his behaviour – both while giving his statement and during the death – as consistent with melancholy. It is a source that provides insight into how individuals of this period narrated their feelings, and behaviour motivated by feeling, but also how such emotion could be pathologised as evidence of disease and understood in terms of corporeal experience. Notably Gibson’s account is not dissimilar to how medical authorities described such diseases, suggestive of a shared medical-emotional culture across social groups. … In the Petition and Information at the instance of James Henderson writer in Jedburgh one of the Procurator Fiscal of the Sheriff Court of Roxburghshire for the Interest of the Public against John Gibson Nailer in Hawick accused of the murder of Janet Renwick his wife in the morning of the nineteenth of November Current In consequence of a warrant following on said Information of Date the said nineteenth current for having the said John Gibson apprehended relative to the foresaid accusation and he being accordingly apprehended and brought before Robert Shorbreed, Esq Sheriff Substitute of said Shire and being Judicially Examined Declares That he is a native of the Town of Ayr and was bread in the business of a nailor which he followed for some time and thereafter enlisted into the 44

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ninety fourth Regiment of Foot That having left that regiment he came to Hawick between eighteen and nineteenth years ago and has wrought at his Trade there ever since That nearly Eighteen years since he married Janet Renwick daughter of Gideon Renwick Flesher in Hawick who during their marriage bore Eleven Children all of whom he believes he is the father of unless perhaps the last which is a boy of about seven months old. That his wife and he always lived in great harmony together till about four months ago, that he thought from his wife’s behaviour her affections were in some measure alienated from him and inconsequence some small altercations took place between them Declares That one of the French officers a prisoner or parole at Hawick has been in the habit of frequenting his House since coming to Hawick and altho’ he cannot say that he ever observed any improprieties between his wife and this Frenchman he suspected from the behavior of his wife being changed to him that such was really the case Declares That within these eight or ten days past he has been afflicted with a violent pain at the pit of the stomach which creates such a heat in his inside and also in his mouth as to render him at times unable to work and within these last five days more than at any other time. That the Declarant is convinced this pain and heat are occasioned by poison being mixed with his victuals and more particularly with his Tea which he has always been accustomed to take upon his coming in from his work in the Evening That on those occasions for the last Ten days his wife always contrived to ferment some trifling quarrel and then rise from the Table saying she would take no Tea and accordingly took none That last Thursday night took his Tea very heartily by himself and after he has finished he observed his wife sneer & smile & put her tongue into her cheek in derision and immediately he felt himself seized with the pain and heat already described more violently than at any former time. That since he felt those complaints he sometimes said to his wife that she was surely poisoning him but she always laughed at him without making any observation Declares That for the last five nights he was at Hawick he took no sleep, and last Thursday night he went to Bed between nine and Ten oclock as he thinks after having had some high words with his wife who was in Bed before him. That his Body and mind being both a good deal disordered he imagined he saw the Frenchman above alluded to in the apartment and rose out of Bed in order to see if he could find him. That the apartment was quite dark and after gropping about for some time and finding nobody he returned to Bed where he remained a short while and then rose again to try if he could get a draught of water as he was very thirsty That not having got any he again went to Bed and desired his wife to go and get him a drink of water which she having refused and at the same time giving him a pounce with her Elbow on the stomach and bidding him begone about his business he again spring out of Bed, followed by his wife who seizing him by the Throat said she would choak him upon which feeling passion roused to a great pitch he felt for a penknife which was in his waistcoat pocket laying upon a Chair and having got it and opened it he called to his wife to leave off and take Care of herself which she not regarding he applied the Knife to his wife’s throat and inflicted an wound in it with all his might upon which he thinks she immediately 45

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feel and the Declarant that instant repenting of what he had done called out for help from his neighbours in the apartments above but no person came in to him until he supposes his wife was dead. That there were two of his Children sleeping in another Bed in the same apartment who were roused from their Sleep on his calling for help, and when a woman from the Room above came into his apartment with a lighted candle he supposed the Children had seen what had happened and being alarmed had got out of Bed and left the Apartment Declares That a few days ago, feeling the Pain at his stomach very uneasy he desired his wife to go to Mrs Armstrongs Laboratory and bring him a plaister to apply to it which she accordingly did and the same has remained upon him ever since Declares that to the best of his knowledge and recollection he is aged about forty years In witness whereof that declaration consisting of this and he four preceding pages written by William Rutherford Sheriff Clerk Depute of Roxburghshire voluntarily emitted by the said Declarant & adhered to by him after the same Sheriff Substitute of Jedburgh the Twentieth day of November witnesses William Reddell & John Haig both Sheriff Officers of said shire residing in Jedburgh and the said William Rutherford

Copy of the Report on John Gibson November 18th Having been requested by the Sheriff of Roxburgh to attend the examination of John Gibson at present a Prisoner in the Tolbooth of Jedburgh, I am from the general tenor of his Declaration and his appearance led to Report. That the said John Gibson has been for sometime past laboring under Depression of Spirits, or Melancholia, and that the excitement appears to have been upon one subject exclusively, with the consequences that may be supposed to arise out of it, That this excitement, or idea which may be chimerical is Jealousy, but has occasioned the belief of a criminal correspondence between his wife and a French Officer and also that for some days past she had administered poison to him in such quantities, and with such effects as to occasion violent pain, and derangement of his stomach & as stated in his declaration. That there is nothing in his present appearance or symptoms that can indicate the effects of poison taken into the stomach either in a large or small dose, but that the same appearance and symptoms may and do take place in Mental Depression, viz an affection of the Stomach, Constipation in the bowels, the sensation of dryness in the mouth, confusion in the head, want of sleep &c That these symptoms which the said John Gibson is labouring under at present is caught common with Melancholia is further corroborated by a change in the expression of his Eyes by a Pulse at 120 without febrile heat or other concomitant symptoms of fever and from its velocity neither being encreased nor diminished during any of the most interesting parts of his declaration. That during the whole of it he was able to give a very coherent answer to any question put to him; except insofar as is related to things connected with, and resulting from the paramour idea, and that this state of mind in such complaints has frequently been observed, by that one predominant and chemircal idea obtains the ascendancy while at the same time there is the free exercise of all the other faculties of the understanding. 46

4 PRINTS OF J EAL OUSY, 1817 AND 18 2 5

Jealousy was an emotion undergoing an evolution in the early nineteenth century. It was increasingly associated with mental illness, at times linked to melancholy (and so potentially leading to suicide) and at others mania, where it could lead to irrational behaviour and violence. It was an emotion that became increasingly important in the European cultural imagination during the nineteenth century, a popular plot device in novels and stories. Particularly associated with men, jealousy – an irrational possessive love of a partner – could cause individuals to develop elaborate fantasies about their beloved’s infidelity; it was closely associated with threats to male and family honour, and the justification for ‘crimes of passion’, where men killed their wives’ lovers. By the end of the nineteenth century, jealousy also came to more prominently figure in a wider range of social relationships, most notably in the form of sibling jealousy. These two prints, made by two well-known British satirists and printmakers, were produced in the early nineteenth century as the public explored the changing meanings and social significance of jealousy. Prints like these were relatively cheap and popular purchases, often producing social commentary on events of the day. Both suggest what ‘jealousy’ might look like to observers. Rowlandson’s jealous husband is contorted as the iconic handsome soldiers – the favourites of Jane Austen’s female characters – come through the doorway; he places a hand between his wife’s embrace and the men. The servant who opens the door is shaded in black, suggestive of the devil that seduced men into jealous feeling. Cruickshank’s print is not dissimilar, but here the husband’s wild imaginings are played out in scenarios throughout the room: his wife eloping and making love with a paramour; the expensive divorce; the deadly duel; suicide. On his desk are copies of the Sorrows of Young Werther, the eighteenth-century tale of unrequited love, and Edward Young’s The Revenge, where imagined infidelity is key to the plot; on the floor is Byron’s Don Juan, a tale of the famous libertine. The messages are paralleled in the image of Othello on the wall, while the painting of the ‘horn fair’ and the horns and antlers on the devils are symbols of cuckoldom. Such images highlight both how jealousy was imagined by audiences and the situations with which they associated such feeling.

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Figure 4.1 Thomas Rowlandson (1756–1827), Jealousy, Rage, Disappointment, watercolour, 1817, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection. Note: for more details see here: https://collections.britishart.yale.edu/catalog/tms:5556.

Figure 4.2 George Cruickshank (1792–1878), Jealousy (London: S. Knight, 1825), etching, US National Library of Medicine. Note: for more details see here: http://resource.nlm.nih.gov/101393087.

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5 SOLOM ON BAYLEY (C.1771–C.1839), A NARRATIVE OF SOME REMARKABL E I NCI DENTS IN THE L IFE OF SOLOM ON B AYLEY, FORMERLY A S LAVE IN THE STAT E OF DELAWARE, N O R TH AMERICA; W RI TTEN BY H IMSELF, AND PUBL I S HED FOR HIS BENEFI T (London: Harvey and Darton, 1825), pp. 1–11

Solomon Bayley was an African American enslaved person who eventually purchased his emancipation and that of his family. Later in life, he emigrated with his wife to Liberia, working as a missionary and farmer. His autobiography was published in England, as an early piece of abolitionist literature. Accounts of enslaved lives were designed to highlight the cruelty of slavery and the humanity of people of African descent. They offer unique access to the life histories of many enslaved people during the period. The extract below describes a moment early in Bayley’s life when he makes a break for freedom. The account offers a detailed description of his thoughts and feelings during this fraught event, as well as the way that God guided his decisions on his journey. It is an artfully constructed text designed to guide the reader through both his fear and anxiety as he endeavours to avoid capture, while building narrative tension as the reader awaits the outcome. As a source for the history of emotions, his autobiography offers a sentimental text designed to produce sympathy in audiences through shared recognition of emotions, and to act as persuasive literature designed to promote political action. If the subjectivity in any text designed to be sold and marketed is shaped by genre, nonetheless this account provides access to the voice and emotional experience of an African

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American during the early nineteenth century and the way it was mediated through religious belief and practice. … SOLOMON BAYLEY, unto all people, and nations, and languages, grace be unto you, and peace from God our Father, and from the Lord Jesus Christ. Having lived some months in continual expectation of death, I have felt uneasy in mind about leaving the world, without leaving behind me some account of the kindness and mercy of God towards me. But when I go to tell of his favours, I am struck with wonder at the exceeding riches of his grace. O! that all people would come to admire him for his goodness, and declare his wonders which he doth for the children of men. The Lord tried to leach me his fear when I was a little boy; but I delighted in vanity and foolishness, and went astray. But the Lord found out a way to overcome me, and to cause me to desire his favour, and his great help; and although I thought no one could be more unworthy of his favour, yet he did look on me, and pitied me in my great distress. I was born a slave in the state of Delaware, and was one of those slaves that were carried out of Delaware into the state of Virginia; and the laws of Delaware did say, that slaves carried out of that state should be free; whereupon I moved to recover my freedom. I employed lawyers, and went to court two days, to have a suit brought to obtain my freedom. After court I went home to stay until the next court, which was about six weeks off. But two days before the court was to sit, I was taken up and put on board of a vessel out of Hunting Creek, bound to Richmond, on the western shore of Virginia, and there put into Richmond jail, and irons were put on me; and I was brought very low. In my distress I was often visited with some symptoms of distraction. At length I was taken out of jail, and put into one of the back country waggons, to go toward the going down of the sun. Now consider, how great my distress must have been, being carried from my wife and children, and from my natural place, and from my chance for freedom. On the third day my distress was bitter, and I cried out in my heart, ‘I am past all hope:’ and the moment I said I was past all hope, it pleased the father of all mercy to look on me, and he sent a strengthening thought into my heart, which was this: that he that made the heavens and the earth, was able to deliver me. I looked up to the sky, and then to the trees and ground, and I believed in a moment, that if he could make all these, he was able to deliver me. Then did that scripture come into my mind, which I had heard before, and that was, “they that trust in the Lord, shall never be confounded.” I believed that was a true word, and I wanted to try that word, and got out of the waggon; but I thought I was not fit to lay hold of the promise: yet another thought came into my mind, and that was, that I did not know to what bounds his mercy would extend. I then made haste and got out of the waggon, and went into the bushes; I squatted down to see what would follow. Now there were three waggons in company, and four white people; they soon missed me, and took out one of the horses and rode back, and were gone about threequarters of an hour, and then returned, and put the horse in the waggon again, and 50

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went on their way; and that was the last I ever saw or heard of them. I sat still where I was till night, and then walked out into the road and looked up to the sky, and I felt very desolate. Oh! the bitterness of distress which I then felt, for having sinned against God; whom if I had been careful to obey in all things, he would have spared me all my troubles. Oh! it is a dangerous thing to cast off fear, and to restrain prayer before God. If we do that which we believe will please him, with a desire to obtain his favour, it is a real prayer; but if we do, or say, that which we believe will displease him, that is to cast off fear, and to restrain prayer before him. When night came and I walked out of the bushes, I felt very awful. I set off to walk homewards, but soon was chased by dogs, at the same house where the man told the waggoner he had taken up a runaway three days before. But it pleased the highest, to send out a dreadful wind, with thunder and lightning, and rain; which was the means by which I escaped, as I then thought, as I travelled along that night. Next day I was taken with the dysentery, which came on so bad, I thought I must die; but I obtained great favour, and kept on my feet, and so I got down to Richmond; but had liked to have been twice taken, for twice I was pursued by dogs. But after I got to Richmond, a coloured man pretended to be my friend, and then sent white people to take me up; but a little while before they came, it came expressly into my mind, that he would prove treacherous and betray me. I obeyed the impression immediately, and left the place I was in, and presently there came with clubs to take me, as it did appear, two white men and a coloured man. When I saw them I was in an hollow place on the ground, not far from where the coloured man left me: at sight of them I was struck with horror and fear, and the fear that came into my soul, took such an impression on my animal frame, that I felt very weak: I cried to the Maker of heaven and earth to save me, and he did so. I lay there and prayed to the Lord, and broke persimmon tree bushes, and covered myself: when night came on, I felt as if the great God had heard my cry. Oh! how marvellous is his loving kindness toward men of every description and complexion. Though he is high, yet hath he respect unto the lowly, and will hear the cry of the distressed when they call upon him, and will make known his goodness and his power. I lay there till night, and then with great fear I went into the town of Richmond, and enquired the way over the river to go to Petersburgh, where I staid near three weeks, in which time, severe and painful were my exercises: I appeared to be shut up in such a straight case, I could not see which way to take. I tried to pray to the Lord for several days together, that he would be pleased to open some way for me to get along. And I do remember, that when I was brought to the very lowest, suddenly a way appeared, and I believe it was in the ordering of a good providence. It was so; there came a poor distressed coloured man to the same house where I had taken refuge: we both agreed to take a craft, and go down James’ River, which was attended with great difficulty, for we met with strict examination twice, and narrowly escaped; we had like to have been drowned twice, once in the river, and once in the bay. But how unable were we to offer unto God that tribute of praise 51

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due to his name, for the miracle of grace shewn to us in our deliverance! Surely wisdom and might are his, and all them that walk in pride he is able to abase. Oh! “Let all the world fall down and know That none but God such power can shew.” We got safe over to the eastern shore of the Chesapeake Bay, where his wife and mine were. And now, reader, I do not tell thee how glad I was, but will leave thee to judge, by supposing it had been thy own case. We landed near Nandew, and then started for Hunting Creek, and we found both our wives; but we found little or no satisfaction, for we were hunted like partridges on the mountains. My companion got to work on board of a vessel to get clams, perhaps to get some money to bring suit for his freedom, (as he had been sold like me, out of the state of Delaware,) if his master should come after him from the back countries, who he said, lived about three hundred and thirty miles from the eastern shore; but poor fellow, they went on board of the vessel where he had been at work, and talked of taking him up and putting him in jail, and of writing to his master in the back countries. He was said to tell them, that he had rather die than to be taken and carried away from his wife again: and it was said, they went down into the cabin and drank, and then came up on deck and seized him, and in the scuffle he slipped out of their hands, and jumped over-board, and tried to swim to an island that was not far off; but they got out the tow boat and went after him, and when they overtook him, he would dive to escape, and still he tried to reach the island: but they watched their opportunity as he rose, when they struck him with the loom of the oar, and knocked his brains out, and he died. And now, reader, consider if you had been carried away from your wife and children, and had got back again, how hard it would seem to be, to be thus chased out of the world; but the great God, whose eyes behold the things that are equal, he continues to make such repent, either in this world, or in the world to come, And now, readers, you have heard of the end of my fellow-sufferer, but I remain as yet, a monument of mercy, thrown up and down on life’s tempestuous sea; sometimes feeling an earnest desire to go away and be at rest; but I travel on, in hopes of overcoming at my last combat. But I will go on to tell of my difficulties. After I came over the bay, I went to see my wife, but was still in trouble; and it was thought best to leave the state of Virginia and go to Dover, and then if my master came after me, to bring suit at Dover, and have a trial for my freedom. The distance from where I then was to Dover, was about one hundred and twenty miles: so I started and travelled at nights, and lay by in the day time. I went on northwards, with great fear and anxiety of mind. It abode on my mind that I should meet with some difficulty before I got to Dover: however I tried to study on the promises of the Almighty, and so travelled on until I came to a place called Anderson’s Cross-Roads; and there I met with the greatest trial I ever met with in all my distress. But the greater the trial, the greater the benefit, if the mind be but staid on that everlasting arm of power, whom the winds and the waves obey. It was so, that I called at them cross-roads, to enquire the way 52

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to Camden, and I thought I would go to the kitchen where the black people were; but when the door was opened, it was a white man I saw, of a portly appearance, with a sulky down look. Now the day was just a breaking: he raised up out of his bed, and came towards the door and began to examine me, and I did not know what to say to him; so he soon entangled me in my own talk, and said, I doubt you are a lying: I said I scorn to lie; but I felt very weak and scared, and soon bid him farewell and started. I went some distance along the road, and then went into the woods, and leaned my back against a tree to study, and soon fell to sleep; and when I waked, the sun was up, and I said to myself, if I stand sleeping about here, and that man that examined me in the morning comes to look for me and finds me, he may tie me before I get awake; for the poor fellow that came across the bay with me told me, that he travelled all night, and in the morning he met a coloured man, and passed on, and went into the woods and lay down, and went to sleep; and he said there came white men and tied him, and waked him up to go before the justice; but so it was, he got away from them and found me at Petersburgh. So considering on what he had told me, and that man’s examining me in the morning, made me I did not know what to do. I concluded to look for a thick place and lay down, and then another thought came into my mind, and that was, to look for a thin place, and there lie down. So I concluded to do so; withal I thought to take a sally downwards, as I enquired of the man to go upwards, I thought by going a little downwards, would be a dodge, and so I should miss him: I thought this plan would do. I then looked for a thin place, and lay down and slept till about nine o’clock, and then waked; and when I awoke, I felt very strange: I said to myself I never felt so in all my distress: I said something was going to happen to me to-day. So I studied about my feelings until I fell to sleep, and when I awoke, there had come two birds near to me; and seeing the little strange looking birds, it roused up all my senses; and a thought came quick into my mind that these birds were sent to caution me to be away out of this naked place; that there was danger at hand. And as I was about to start, it came into my mind with great energy and force, “if you move out of this circle this day, you will be taken;” for I saw the birds went all round me: I asked myself what this meant, and the impression grew stronger, that I must stay in the circle which the birds made. At the same time a sight of my faults came before me, and a scanty sight of the highness and holiness of the great Creator of all things. And now, reader, I will assure thee I was brought very low, and I earnestly asked what I should do: and while I waited to be instructed, my mind was guided back to the back countries, where I left the waggons about sixty or seventy miles from Richmond, towards the sun-setting; and a question arose in my mind, how I got along all that way, and to see if I could believe that the great God had helped me notwithstanding my vileness. I said in my heart, it must be the Lord, or I could not have got along, and the moment I believed in his help, it was confirmed in my mind, if he had begun to help me, and if he did send those birds, he would not let anything come into the circle the birds had made; I therefore tried to confirm myself in the promises of God, and concluded to stay in the circle; and so being weary, travelling all night, I soon fell to sleep; and when I awaked, it was 53

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by the noise of the same man that examined me in the morning, and another man, an old conjuror, for so I called him. And the way they waked me was by their walking in the leaves, and coming right towards me. I was then sitting on something about nine inches high from the ground, and when I opened my eyes and saw them right before me, and I in that naked place, and the sun a shining down on me about eleven o’clock, I was struck with dread, but was afraid to move hand or foot: I sat there, and looked right at them; and thought I, here they come right towards me; and the first thought that struck my mind was, am I a going to sit here until they come and lay hands on me?

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6 JOSEPH BLANCO W HI TE (1775–1841), THE L IFE OF REV JOSEPH BLANCO W HI TE Ed. John Hamilton Thom, 3 vols (London: John Chapman, 1830), pp. 155–167

Joseph Blanco White was born in Spain to an Irish migrant family. He trained for the Roman Catholic church, but doubts about his faith and the ongoing Napoleonic Wars led him to leave the country for the United Kingdom. There he studied theology, before entering the Anglican church; late in life he became a Unitarian. He wrote widely on a range of topics, particularly religion, and on Spanish politics, especially commenting on the ongoing Spanish nationalist movement in South America. His Life of, or memoirs, provides an overview of his life and was written when he was in his fifties. The excerpt below describes when – aged 35 – he left Spain, trying to avoid the movement of the various British, Spanish and French armies. The account captures the combination of sorrow, anxiety and hope that he felt as he made this momentous decision during a period of significant political unrest. Like Elizabeth Wynne (in source one), the turmoil of current events inflected and shaped experience of more mundane events, such as travel and migration. As a well-educated writer however, his descriptions of his feelings reflected current ideas about their operation in conjunction with memory and the physiological body, as well as his skill at conveying his sentiments in a sympathetic form for his audience. He deftly weaves a history of key events together with his personal narrative, allowing larger social processes to underpin and justify his emotional experiences during the period. … There was a time when to record the feelings which attended my separation from the land of my birth would have raised in my heart that degree of quiet sorrow from which no one recoils. Persons of an affectionate temper take pleasure in a state of mind which, though not positively pleasurable, derives a charm from its being an unquestionable token of undying love to the objects of our earliest

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attachments. But age has augmented the sensibility of my mind upon those subjects, though, I trust, some part of its original morbidness has been subdued in regard to passing events. When I wrote the Letters of Leucadio Doblado, I had sufficient strength to draw the pictures of my parents which stand prominent in the supposed narrative of a Spanish Clergyman: but I dare not now fix my mind’s eye upon those beloved images. I have indeed delayed to begin this part of my Memoirs, from an instinctive dread of raising those visions of the past which are inseparable from the subject of my departure for England. This dread, however, has suggested to me that there is a way to separate Memory from Imagination,—that we may narrate without painting. I am convinced that the Mind can employ certain indistinct signs to represent even its most vivid impressions; that instead of picture writing, it can use something like algebraic symbols. Such is the language of the Soul when the paroxysm of pain has passed, and the wounds it formerly received are skinned over, not healed: it is a language the very opposite to that used by the Poet and the Novel writer. I am unambitious enough, at present, to adopt such colourless style. When the Members of the Spanish Government, obliged to consult their own safety by flight, could no longer conceal that the French troops were advancing to Seville, without a shadow of opposition, consternation reduced the mass of the inhabitants to that state of mental torpor, that absence of all definite will, which leaves the few who can exert their own, at full liberty to act as they please. But I knew that the inaction produced by terror could not be of long continuance: I was persuaded that the Mob would awake from its slumber with a determination to compel the upper classes to await the common fate of the city. Within the three days of stillness which preceded the popular storm I formed and executed my determination to quit Spain. The desire to leave that country had, for many years, been working in my inmost soul, and so identified had it become with my whole being that there hardly was a thought, a feeling, into which the wish of expatriation had not insinuated itself: but before this moment, it acted in the character of despondency, and like a poisonous root, its multiplied fibres conveyed a sickening breath to every perception and thought. Not so the moment that the light of hope shone upon it, in one full burst of immediate expectation. There was now no leisure for exhibitions of grief on the part of those whose love had hitherto closed every opening to retreat. Fear lest the adherents of Joseph Buonaparte should gain me over to their party, was the predominant feeling of both my father and mother. I rejoice, even at this distance of time, in the thought, that their violent anti-gallican prejudices must have allayed the pang of our separation. Nor did they know my determination of never returning to Spain; and I have a notion (the ground of which is mentioned in my Evidence against Catholicism) that my mother’s habitual misgivings in regard to my religious opinions, and the danger of falling into the hands of the Inquisition in which she saw me, must, to a certain degree, have relieved the pain produced by my absence. Her alarm, in regard to the probable solicitations of the French party, was far from being imaginary. The evening before I left Seville, one of my most intimate friends entreated me with 56

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tears not to leave the country. A person, whom he did not name, had acknowledged to him that he was in direct communication with the Government of King Joseph. By the desire of that agent, my friend came to promise me not only protection but especial favour. My friend was convinced that the military struggle was now at an end; and that the duty of every honest man was to contribute to the establishment of a new dynasty, which, supported as it was by many of the most enlightened Spaniards, would raise the country out of its moral degradation, and deliver it from the yoke of the priesthood. But I was deaf to such remonstrances. I knew too well the strong hold which superstition had on the country; I knew that it was not the love of liberty and independence which had armed the people against Napoleon and his brother, but that the fear of the great mass of the Spaniards arose from the intended reform of religious abuses. It was my misfortune to belong to that order, from whose members, as a class, Spain’s ignorance, Spain’s moral incurableness, mainly originated: the name of Priest irritated and depressed me; and yet I could not wash off that odious mark, even if I had tried to do it with my blood. If I remained in Spain, I must have lived on terms with the priesthood; I must have thought one thing and said another to the last day of my life. Mental freedom attracted me with irresistible power: I now saw it within my reach, and there was nothing in the whole Universe which could allure me from it. My father’s partner, Mr. Beck (an Irishman), and his wife (my first cousin), with a relation of ours, who, though a Dominican friar, had been living in dependently from the Order under an appointment of the Government, had arranged to drop down the river, and watch the course of events at Cadiz. I joined the party. About nine in the morning, we went into an open boat, which was to convey us to San Lucar. But at that moment the noise of the Mob, which at day-break had begun to stir in an other part of the town, was said to be approaching. We had to wind a considerable way down the river, before we reached a battery which had been placed to command a reach of the Guadalquivir, at the distance of about a mile from the town. It was to that battery that the populace were hastening, for the purpose of preventing emigration from Seville. We heard plainly their drums as we passed under the battery, and were out of sight before they had taken possession of the guns. We proceeded at the rate of five or six miles an hour, and only when the tide served. On the third morning after our departure, we arrived at the mouth of the Guadalquivir, where an English vessel consigned to our mercantile establishment was waiting for a cargo of wool. My father’s partner, though anxious to avoid the French, whose advanced detachments we were expecting to see every hour, was equally anxious to have the cargo of wool, which was to come down by the river, safely stowed in the English vessel which we found at anchor near San Lucar. We waited four and twenty hours in the boat, suffering the greatest inconvenience, which we preferred to passing the night at San Lucar, where there was every appearance that a popular insurrection would take place as soon as the news of the taking of Seville by the French should arrive. Such was the infallible consequence of every advance of the enemy. To deprive the Spaniards of their usual boasting, by stating the fact that the French had done what, in the midst of 57

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complete inactivity, every inhabitant delighted to defy them to do, was an offence which their irascible temper, and absurd pride, could by no means forgive. Woe to the unfortunate messenger of evil tidings! A Spanish officer was on the point of being murdered, at Seville, on the day when, to my certain knowledge, the Central Junta had received the intelligence of the surrender of Madrid to Napoleon, because, in total ignorance that the Government had determined to deceive the people as long as possible, he mentioned Napoleon’s success at a Coffee-house. The impregnableness of Seville was an article of the patriotic faith in Andalusia. As our arrival at San Lucar threw the first shadow of doubt on that belief, we became soon aware that the confidence of our countrymen could not be disturbed with impunity. Fortunately we could still assert with truth that the French had not appeared when we left Seville; and we excused our flight by the example of the Government, who had preceded us on their way to Cadiz. Yet I well recollect the murderous expression of a sailor who, in our own boat, told me that both the Government and those who followed their example, were worthy to die the death of traitors. Fortunately for us the river was the next morning covered with boats full of fugitives. A universal panic having now succeeded the previous boasting and defiance, we were allowed to embark unmolested in the English vessel above mentioned. I cannot well express the exultation I felt upon seeing the Union Jack hoisted as we set sail for Cadiz. My joy would have been complete if our course had been at once to England. Still there was a pleasure of anticipation which I would not have exchanged for the best bishoprick in Spain. We sailed late in the evening. Loud explosions were heard at a distance, and when darkness came on we saw flashes of light precede them. This continued the whole night. The Captain assured us they were not discharges of Artillery; and rightly conjectured that some forts, on the coast, were being destroyed, before the expected approach of the French. When the next morning we cast anchor in the bay of Cadiz, we found both the Port and the City in a state of indescribable confusion. The local Government had ordered that no strangers should be admitted. British subjects, however, were privileged. As the Captain of our vessel and my Irish relation were about to make use of that privilege, I determined to pass for an Englishman among them. I borrowed a coloured coat, and, assuming as unclerical an air as I could command, followed the Captain of our vessel to the City Gate. The Captain went in first. A fat Friar who was stationed there to enforce the orders of the local Government, looked at me, and said: Inglis? My answer, though not in the most refined English, was perfectly idiomatic. The Friar, on hearing me, bowed and let me pass. Once within the walls of Cadiz I had no fear of being turned out. I knew how ill all orders of Government are executed in Spain; and though, not to expose the house where I intended to stay to any accidental vexation, I presented myself to one of the Magistrates, not a word was said against my stay, when I assured him that I intended to sail to England by the next Packet. My impatience of delay within the territory of Spain grew indeed every hour from the vague apprehension of some hindrance to my quitting it. My numerous 58

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friends at Cadiz endeavoured to dissuade me from the idea of leaving the country; but in vain. Three weeks of an anxious expectation did I pass there waiting for the sailing of the Packet; but at that critical moment, it had to wait for the dispatches of Mr. Frere, the English Ambassador, who, having succeeded after a long and troublesome contest with the Spanish authorities, in obtaining admission into Cadiz for a division of British troops which was daily expected, wished to announce that important event to his Government as having actually taken place. It was during this interval that the Spanish Nun, whose miserable case I have stated at length in my Evidence against Catholicism, begged to take a parting view of me, or to speak more accurately to move me if possible to take her away with me, and save her out of the hands of her unfeeling tyrants. The fate of that unfortunate victim of superstition ought not to be forgotten. I saw the expected British division enter Cadiz by the Puerta del Mar, as well as the French troops occupying the opposite Coast; and within not many hours after the landing of the English troops took possession of a wretched berth on board the Lord Howard: I believe that was the name of the Packet which brought me to England. Had I been in a mood to attend to any thing but the object of my most ardent and long delayed wishes, which I had now attained, the state of the Packet would have afforded me abundant matter for patience. The idea that I was going to be free was more than a compensation for all my troubles. I was under the British flag in the open sea, as the sun rose above the horizon. The beautiful town of Cadiz was sinking gradually behind the waters. A shade of melancholy passed over my mind, when I thought that I should never see those buildings again; and then I gave myself up to the sublime enjoyment of the solitary expanse before me. Our passage, upon the whole, was favourable. I enjoyed one beautiful moonlight night in the Bay of Biscay. The next morning we were chased by a frigate, which fortunately turned out to be English. A storm overtook us off the Isles of Scilly, and we passed a whole night in some danger; but I was far from being timid at sea. Not so two or three among the Spanish passengers. One of them came to bespeak absolution, in case of shipwreck. The weather, however, abated in the morning, and we saw the Land’s End just before a genuine English fog fell upon us. It was about eleven o’clock on the 3rd of March, 1810, when we anchored in Falmouth harbour. Until this moment I had felt no anxiety whatever. But eleven days at sea, in very uncomfortable circumstances, had produced a bodily indisposition, which could not fail to have a certain influence on my spirits. I had not thought of providing myself with clothing suited to the English climate. A chill, such as I had never experienced, seized my whole frame. I thought I was breathing in death with the fog. Thus I stood on deck in the midst of the confusion which attends all landings, especially where there is a crowd of passengers, all anxious to get on shore, all regardless of every body else, all wound up to the highest pitch of peevish selfishness. Unacquainted with every thing about me, and fearful to an absurd excess of that kind of ridicule and disrespect which a foreigner, especially a Spaniard, apprehends in England, I stood motionless, waiting for the last turn, and perfectly indifferent whether I passed the remaining part of the day and the 59

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ensuing night in the Packet. A strong persuasion that the climate would kill me in a short time, took possession of my mind; and I felt as if I were going to land into the grave. It was fortunate for me that the bearer of the dispatches which arrived with us, was a friend of mine. Mr. Lascelles Hoppner, son of the celebrated painter of that name, and himself a young artist of great promise in the same line as his father, had been for some time at Seville, studying the numerous and valuable pictures which were found in that native town of Murillo. Lascelles Hoppner, who not long after became the hopeless inhabitant of a Lunatic Asylum, was then a youth of the most agreeable and affectionate temper. For a long time I had enjoyed the pleasure of almost daily intercourse with him, and his elder brother Mr. Belgrave Hoppner. I had grown intimate with both; and it was extremely fortunate for me that my amiable friend Lascelles offered me a place in the Postchaise in which he had to hurry to London in order to deliver Mr. Frere’s dispatches with the least possible delay. It was that kind friend that relieved the overpowering feeling of strangeness which possessed me in a country, whose language I spoke but imperfectly, and where I felt totally at a loss to make my way, even to settle myself in lodgings. It was to the family of the Hoppners that I owed the first hospitable reception in England.

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7 E XCERPT F ROM É TI ENNE E U GÈNE AZAM (18 2 2 – 1 8 9 9 ) , ‘PE RIODICAL AM N ESI A; OR, DO UBLE CONSCIO USNESS’ Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease 3 (1876b): 584–612

This is part of the case history of Felida X written by the French surgeon Étienne Eugène Azam, and published in an academic journal. Case histories were particularly important in the history of early psychology and related scientific disciplines, where knowledge in the field largely developed through close observation and description of those considered to be mentally ill or disabled. The account provides background to Felida’s life and current circumstances, her physical attributes, and the behaviour that is thought to reflect the symptoms of her condition. Emotions play a significant role in this account as symptoms themselves, as evidences of health and illness, and as critical incidents that lead to her condition. The case history is also a sentimental narrative, where Felida is portrayed sympathetically and passively as a product of her condition. She is someone who the doctor feels for and believes others – the male reader – would do so in his place. Such accounts provide evidence for how the role of emotion featured and came to clinical importance within the developing field of psychology, and of the case study as the location not only of the emotions of the subject, but the researcher. As a source for the self, they also provide an access point to the developing psychological worlds of those who came into contact with the medical profession. … Felida X. was born in 1843, in Bordeaux, of healthy parents. Her father, a captain in the merchant marine service, died when she was very young, and her mother, left in destitute circumstances, was obliged to work to bring up her children. The first years of Felida were attended with trial, nevertheless, her development went on regularly. Towards the age of thirteen, a little after puberty, she presented symptoms which denote the beginning of hysteria; viz., various nervous attacks, vague pains,

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pulmonary hemorrhages, which the condition of the respiratory organs did not explain. A skillful seamstress, of mature intelligence; she applied herself to her needle-working by the day. At fourteen and a half the phenomena began to appear, which form the theme of this recital; without any recognized cause, under the influence of some emotion, she would experience a keen pain in both temples, and fall into a profound languor, resembling sleep. This lasted about ten minutes; after this, she voluntarily opened her eyes, apparently awakening, and then would commence another condition, which we usually, call secondary, which I shall describe hereafter. It would last an hour or two, then the languor and sleepiness would reappear and she would return to the normal state. This kind of paroxysm returned every five or six hours, or less frequently, and her relatives and persons around her remarking the change in her manner during this sort of second life and her forgetfulness on her awakening, believed her to be insane. … The following are the symptoms, as I observed them in October, 1858: Felida is a brunette, of medium height, quite robust, and of ordinary stoutness of figure. She is subject to frequent hæmoptysis, probably supplementary. She is very intelligent, and tolerably well-educated for her social position; of a melancholy, and morose disposition. Her conversation is serious, and she talks but little. Her will is firm, and she is very diligent at her work. Her affections appear to be but little developed. She dwells on her ill health, which occasions in her serious pre-occupation of mind, and suffers acute pain in various parts of the body, particularly in the head. The symptom, called clavus hystericus,1 is well marked. One is particularly impressed with her sombre air, and the little desire she has to speak. She answers your questions, and that is all. After a careful examination, from an intellectual standpoint, I find her actions, ideas and conversation to be perfectly rational. Almost every day, without any known cause, or under the influence of an emotion, she is seized with what is called her “crisis”; in fact she enters into her second condition. Having witnessed this phenomonon hundreds of times, I can describe it with accuracy. I have been speaking in accordance with that, which was related to me. I am now going to describe what I have actually seen. Felida is seated, some sewing lying upon her knees; all at once, without any premonition whatever, after a more than usually violent pain in her temples, her head falls upon her breast; her hands cease to move and hang helplessly by her side; she sleeps, or appears to sleep, but it is a sleep of such a peculiar character, that neither noise nor excitement, pinching nor pricking, can awake her. This kind of sleep is instantaneous, lasting two or three minutes; formerly much longer. Felida awakens, but her intellect is not what it was before she fell asleep. Everything appears different. She raises her head, and, opening her eyes, smilingly salutes new comers; her countenance brightens, and indicates only happiness. Her talk is quick, and humming an air the while, she resumes her needle-work, which was commenced in the preceding state. She rises, her step is elastic, and she does not 62

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complain of the thousand pains which, but a few moments before, caused her to suffer. She applies herself to the ordinary duties of the household, goes out, circulates through the town, visits her neighbors, taking her work with her, and her gay manners are those of a young woman in her most vigorous years. Her character is completely changed; formerly melancholy, she has become cheerful; even gay, her vivacity sometimes even bordering on wildness. Her imagination is very vivid. From the slightest cause, she is overcome with emotions of sadness or joy. Instead of being indifferent to everything, as she was, she has become sensitive in the extreme. In this condition, she remembers perfectly all that has passed during similar preceding states, and also during her normal life. I will add, that she has always maintained that the state, whatever it may be, in which she is when one speaks to her, is the normal one, which she calls her “reason,” in opposition to the other which she calls her “crisis.” In this life, as in the other, her intellectual and normal faculties, although different, are unquestionably complete, each frenzied idea, each perverted perception, each hallucination. I will say, even, that in this second condition, all her faculties seem to be more fully developed—more complete. This second life, wherein no physical pain is experienced, is far, superior to the other, and especially so on account of the important fact which we have already brought to notice, that while it continues, Felida remembers not only that which has taken place during previous attacks, but also during her entire normal life, whereas, and I shall refer to it again later, during her normal life she has no recollection of that which took place during the attacks. After a period which, in 1858, lasted three or four hours, almost daily, Felida’s cheerfulness suddenly disappears. Her head falls upon her breast, and she relapses into that state of torpor which we have described. Three or four minutes elapse, and she opens her eyes, to enter again into her ordinary existence. One can scarcely realize it, because she continues her work with zeal, almost with obstinacy. It often happens that a piece of sewing undertaken in the preceding period, she does not understand, and it causes her a great mental effort to comprehend it. Nevertheless, she continues it as well as she can, at the same time lamenting her unfortunate situation. Her family, who are accustomed to this state of things, set her to rights. Some minutes before, she sings a romantic song, and if we ask her to repeat it, she does not know what we are talking about. They speak to her about a visitor whom she has just received, but she has seen no one. I believe I am able to define the limits of this amnesia. The forgetfulness relates only to those things which transpired during the second condition. Every general idea acquired prior to this, is unaffected. She knows perfectly well how to read, write, and keep accounts, cut out work, sew, and a thousand other things, which she has known before being sick, or which she has learned in the preceding normal periods. … At this epoch there is exhibited a third condition which is only an epiphenomenon of the attack. I have witnessed this condition only three or four times, 63

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and in the course of sixteen years her husband has witnessed it only about thirty times. Being in her second condition, she falls asleep in the manner described, and instead of awakening in the normal state as usual, she finds herself in a peculiar state, which is characterized by an indescribable terror. Her first words are: “I’m afraid! I’m afraid!” She does not recognize any one excepting the young man who has become her husband. This state somewhat delirious, continues only a short time. This is the only time when I have been able to detect in her perverted conceptions. I could interpret hallucinations of hearing and smell; certain hyperæsthetic conditions of these senses, but a careful study has demonstrated to me that exaltation of these senses alone, enables her to hear conversation and noises, and to perceive odors that no one around her could hear or perceive. The history of hysteria is full of such cases. I will not dwell upon it. If I have had doubts in reference to the separation of the two existences, they have been removed by what I am going to relate. A young man of from eighteen to twenty years of age, was acquainted with Felida X. from infancy, and visited the house frequently. These young people having a strong affection for one another became engaged. One day Felida, sadder than usual, said to me with tears in her eyes that her malady was growing worse, that her abdomen was enlarging, and that she had nausea every morning; in a word, she gave me a most perfect description of a commencing pregnancy. The uneasy conduct of those who surrounded her, caused me to have suspicions which were soon confirmed. In fact, in the attack which followed, soon after, Felida said to me in the presence of these same persons; “I recollect perfectly what I have just said to you. You ought to have easily understood me. I confess it without evasion. I believe I am pregnant.” In the second life, her pregnancy did not disturb her mind. She took it easily. Having become enciente in her second condition, she denied it in her normal condition, and was aware of it only in similar states. But this ignorance could not last long. A neighbor to whom she made a full confession and who, being skeptical, could not but believe that Felida was acting a comedy, brutally reminded her of her confidence after the attack. This discovery made such a deep impression upon the young girl, that she had very violent hysterical convulsions, and I was obliged to attend her for two or three hours. The child conceived during the attack is sixteen years old to-day. We will refer to it again later. … She was confined happily, and nursed her child. At this time, occupied by other studies, I lost sight of her completely. She had married the young man of whom we have spoken. Now, this young man, who is very intelligent, has observed carefully the condition of his wife from 1859 to 1876. His information fills up a gap of sixteen years, which occurred in my personal observation. Here is a resumé of that which took place during these sixteen years. Toward the age of seventeen and a half years, Felida passed through her first confinement, and during the two years which followed, her health was excellent, no particular phenomena having been observed. Toward nineteen and a half, the 64

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symptoms already described, re-appeared, with modified intensity. One year later, there were a second pregnancy, considerable pain, and spitting of blood, and various nervous symptoms, incident to hysteria, such as attacks of lethargy, lasting three or four hours. At this time, and up to the age of twenty-four, the paroxysms occurred more frequently, and their duration, which was at first equal to the period of normal life, began to exceed it. Pulmonary hemorrhage, which continued up to the last-mentioned time, became more frequent, and considerable. Felida was seized with partial paralysis, attacks of lethargy, ecstacy, etc., all phenomena due, as every one knows, to the hysteria which controlled her temperament. From twenty-four to twenty-seven, our patient had three complete years of normal life. After this time, and even up to 1875, that is to say, during the six last years, the malady has re-appeared in a form which I shall soon describe. I will add, that during these sixteen years, Felida has had eleven pregnancies, or miscarriages, including the one of 1854, and only two children are living. … Felida X. is now thirty-two years old. She is mother of a family, and carries on a grocery. She has only two living children; the oldest, conceived, as we have said, during a period of attack, has the nervous temperament of its mother, is intelligent, and an excellent musician. He has nervous attacks, without complete loss of consciousness, and after these nervous crises, indescribable terrors, which recall the third stage, which we have described. Evidently this child, who is sixteen years old, suffers from the influence of morbid inheritance. Physically, Felida is thin, without wearing a sickly appearance. … She is always sick, that is to say, she suffers continually from loss of memory, which she inappropriately calls her crises, only these supposed crises, which are all only periods of normal existence, have become much more rare. The last dates back three months. Meanwhile, this loss of memory, which characterizes them, has caused her to commit such blunders in her intercourse with her neighbors, that Felida retains the most painful remembrance of it, and is afraid of being considered insane. … On the 21st of June, Felida, who is evidently in the second state, relates to me, that from four to five days, she has had on the same day, three or four lesser attacks, from one to two hours each. During this time, she lost all recollection of her ordinary existence, and at such moments she is so wretched in this singular condition, that she contemplates suicide. She was then, she says, certainly insane, for she ignored that I had seen her before. She entreated me even, if by chance I should see her again in a similiar condition, to act as if I saw her for the first time, inasmuch as a new reminding of her infirmity would increase her mortification. She was sensible that at the time her character was much changed. She became, she says, wicked and provoked violent scenes in her home. Guided by the memory 65

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or the past and by her husband’s familiarity with these changes, it is very easy for me to recognize that Felida is in the second condition, though she supposes the contrary. As formerly, in fact her conversation is brief; character decided, and natural manners relatively gay and careless. It is the same gaity of sixteen years ago, but tempered by the reason of a mother of a family. I believe, I ought to give here certain episodes in the life of our patient related by herself. They will serve to give an excellent and complete idea of her condition. During the summer of 1874, in consequence of a violent emotion, she was taken by what she wrongly termed her crisis, which lasted several months without interruption, during which she as usual lost her memory, in fact, her husband said to me that she had at this epoch a period of normal life, which lasted so long that he hoped for her recovery. Two years ago, being in her ordinary state, (that is to say, in the second condition) she was returning in a coach from the obsequies of a lady of her aquaintance. On her way home, she felt that period which she calls her crisis, (normal state) coming on. She was drowsy for a few seconds, without the ladies who were with her in the coach perceiving it, and awakened in the other state absolutely ignorant why she was in a funeral coach, with persons, who according to custom, were speaking of the qualities of the deceased, whose name she did not even know. Accustomed to these situations, she listened. By skillful questioning she succeded in making herself aquainted with the circumstances, and no one could suspect what had transpired. One month ago she lost her sister-in-law by death, after a long illness. Now, during one of these normal states of which I have spoken above, she had the mortification of absolutely forgetting all the circumstances of the death. She knows only by means of her mourning that her sister-in-law, who she knew was sick, is dead. Her children took their first communion while she was in the second condition. She had the mortification to forget this fact during her normal period. Between the former condition of our patient and the present, I ought to note a certain difference. Formerly she lost her consciousness entirely during the short period of transition. This loss was so complete, even, that one day in 1859, she fell down in the street and was picked up by passers-by. After awakening in the other state, she thanked them, smiling, and naturally they could not comprehend the cause of her singular gaity. It is no longer so now. This period of transition has diminished little by little, and although the loss of consciousness may be as complete, it is so brief that Felida can conceal it in whatever place she may be. This period presents a strong analogy to that which we call in medicine le petit mal, which is the least of the forms of epilepsy. However, with this difference, that le petit mal is absolutely sudden, while certain signs known to her, such as pressure in the temples, indicate to Felida the return of her attacks. This is what takes place. When she feels them corning on, she raises her hand to her head; complains of a dazzling before the eye, and after an inappreciable time, passes into the other state. She can thus conceal what she calls her infirmity. This 66

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dissimulation is so complete that amongst the persons around her, her husband alone is cognizant of her condition at the time. Others perceive only the change of character, which I ought to say is very well marked. We shall dwell upon these variations which Felida herself describes, with the greatest frankness. In the period of attack or her second condition, she is more haughty, more insouciant more attentive to her toilet. She is less industrious, but much more sensitive. It seems as if, when in this state, she bears towards those who surround her, a deeper regard. … Some days after (July 5th) entering the house of Felida, I was impressed with the sadness of her countenance. She saluted me ceremoniously. She seemed to be astonished at my visit. Her demeanor struck me, and I surmised that she was in the period of normal life. To ascertain the certainty of it, I asked her if she remembered the last time we saw each other. “Perfectly,” responded she, “it was about a year ago. I saw you stepping into your carriage in the Place de la Cornedie. I think you did not see me. I have seen you at other times but rarely since the time you came to attend me before my marriage.” It was certain Felida was in the normal state, for she knew nothing about my last visit made, you will recollect, during the second condition. I questioned her and learned that she is in the “reason,” (she says only to-day) since 8 o’clock in the morning. It is about 3 o’clock p. m. Profiting from an occasion perhaps difficult to be met with again, I studied her condition with care. Here is a resume of my observations: Felida suffers from melancholy verging on despair, and communicates to me the cause of it in most eloquent terms. Her situation is very sad and any one of us taking it home to himself, can easily imagine what would be his life to-day, should he be suddenly cut off from the remembrance of the occurrences of three or four preceding months. Everything is forgotten, or rather, nothing exists. Business, important circumstances, acquaintances formed, information given, all are leaves of a chapter rudely torn from a book. It is a gap which it is impossible to fill up.

Note 1 A sharp pain in the head like a nail being driven in.

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8 H ERM INE HUG-HELLM UTH (1871–1924 ) , A Y OUNG GIRL’ S DI ARY Ed. Sigmund Freud and Trans. Eden and Cedar Paul (New York: Thomas Seltzer, 1921), pp. 13–18, 21–25, 33–36

Hermine Hug-Hellmuth was an Austrian psychoanalyst, and one of the earliest analysts to specialise in working with children. In 1919, she published A Young Girl’s Diary in German; it was remarkably popular, translated into English and French, and considered a key text in the history of child psychoanalysis. It was also controversial. The diary provides an account of the thoughts, feelings and experiences of a young adolescent in the form of a regular journal, but the child that is found there aligns remarkably closely with Freudian ideas of childhood, not least evidencing Oedipal desires, sibling rivalries, and anxieties about sexual maturity. Freud himself provided an enthusiastic preface for an English edition. Hug-Hellmuth was accused of fraud, and the book was withdrawn from sale in Germany. She denied writing the journal, although admitted editing it. Contemporary critics believe that the text was likely based on real childhood experiences – perhaps her own – but where they were reinterpreted through a psychoanalytical lens. As a source for the history of emotion, the diary provides evidence of the growing influence of psychoanalysis and psychology on the childhood self of the early twentieth century, where stages of childhood development figure strongly in how childhood behaviours were understood. It likely offers some insight into contemporary childhood experiences in the late-nineteenth century, although the child herself may have not described her behaviour in such language. There are interesting similarities with the writing of Betsy Wynne (source one), written a century earlier, and its capacity to capture such ‘childish’ qualities likely contributed to its success and belief by many in its veracity. As well as potential editing, this text is also offered in translation and so the historian of emotion has to consider how that transfer of emotional terms across languages shaped their meaning. …

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July 23rd. It’s awful. One has no time. Yesterday when I wanted to write the room had to be cleaned and D. was in the arbour. Before that I had not written a single word and in the front veranda all my pages blew away. We write on loose pages. Hella thinks it’s better because then one does not have to tear anything out. But we have promised one another to throw nothing away and not to tear anything up. Why should we? One can tell a friend everything. A pretty friend if one couldn’t. Yesterday when I wanted to go into the arbour Dora glared at me savagely, saying What do you want? As if the arbour belonged to her, just as she wanted to bag the front veranda all for herself. She’s too sickening. Yesterday afternoon we were on the Kolber-Kogel. It was lovely. Father was awfully jolly and we pelted one another with pine-cones. It was jolly. I threw one at Dora and it hit her on her padded bust. She let out such a yell and I said out loud You couldn’t feel it there. As she went by she said Pig! it doesn’t matter, for I know she understood me and that what I said was true. I should like to know what she writes about every day to Erika and what she writes in her diary. Mother was out of sorts and stayed at home. July 24th. To-day is Sunday. I do love Sundays. Father says: You children have Sundays every day. That’s quite true in the holidays, but not other times. The peasants and their wives and children are all very gay, wearing Tyrolese dresses, just like those I have seen in the theatre. We are wearing our white dresses to-day, and I have made a great cherrystain upon mine, not on purpose, but because I sat down upon some fallen cherries. So this afternoon when we go out walking I must wear my pink dress. All the better, for I don’t care to be dressed exactly the same as Dora. I don’t see why everyone should know that we are sisters. Let people think we are cousins. She does not like it either; I wish I knew why. Oswald is coming in a week, and I am awfully pleased. He is older than Dora, but I can always get on with him. Hella writes that she finds it dull without me; so do I. July 25th. I wrote to Fräulein Prückl to-day. She is staying at Achensee. I should like to see her. Every afternoon we bathe and then go for a walk. But to-day it has been raining all day. Such a bore. I forgot to bring my paint-box and I’m not allowed to read all day. Mother says, if you gobble all your books up now you’ll have nothing left to read. That’s quite true but I can’t even go and swing. Afternoon. I must write some more. I’ve had a frightful row with Dora. She says I’ve been fiddling with her things. It’s all because she’s so untidy. As if her things could interest me. Yesterday she left her letter to Erika lying about on the table, and all I read was: He’s as handsome as a Greek God. I don’t know who “he” was for she came in at that moment. It’s probably Krail Rudi, with whom she is everlastingly playing tennis and carries on like anything. As for handsome—well, there’s no accounting for taste. July 26th. It’s a good thing that I brought my dolls’ portmanteau. Mother said: you’ll be glad to have on rainy days. Of course I am much too old to play with dolls, but even though I’m 11 I can make doll’s clothes still. One learns something while one is doing it, and when I finish something I do enjoy it so. Mother caught me out some things and I was tacking them together. Then Dora came into the 69

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room and said Hullo, the child is sewing things for her dolls. What cheek, as if she had never played with dolls. Besides, I don’t really play with dolls any longer. When she sat down beside me I sewed so vigorously that I made a great scratch on her hand, and said: Oh, I’m so sorry, but you came too close. I hope she’ll know why I really did it. Of course she’ll go and sneak to Mother. Let her. What right has she to call me child. She’s got a fine red scratch anyhow, and on her right hand where everyone can see. July 27th. There’s such a lot of fruit here. I eat raspberries and gooseberries all day and Mother says that is why I have no appetite for dinner. But Dr. Klein always says Fruit is so wholesome. But why should it be unwholesome all at once? Hella says that when one likes anything awfully much one is always scolded about it until one gets perfectly sick of it. Hella often gets in such a temper with her mother, and then her mother says: We make such sacrifices for our children and they reward us with ingratitude. I should like to know what sacrifices they make. I think it’s the children who make the sacrifices. When I want to eat gooseberries and am not allowed to, the sacrifice is mine, not Mother’s. I’ve written all this to Hella. Fräulein Prückl had written to me. The address on her letter to me was splendid, “Fräulein Grete Lainer, Lyzealschülerin.”1 Of course Dora had no better than anyone else, and said that in the higher classes from the fourth upwards (because she is in the fourth) they write “Lyzeistin.”2 She said: “Anyhow, in the holidays, before a girl has attended the first class she’s not a Lyzealschülerin at all.” Then father chipped in, saying that we (I didn’t begin it) really must stop this eternal wrangling; he really could not stand it. He’s quite right, but what he said won’t do any good, for Dora will just go on just the same. Fräulein Prückl wrote that she was delighted that I had written. As soon as I have time she wants me to write her again. Great Scott, I’ve always time for her. I shall write to her again this evening after supper, so as not to keep her waiting. July 29th. I simply could not write yesterday. The Warths have arrived, and I had to spend the whole day with Erna and Liesel, although it rained all day. We had a ripping time. They know a lot of round games and we played for sweets. I won 47, and I gave five of them to Dora. Robert is already more than a head taller than we are, I mean than Liesel and me; I think he is fifteen. He says Fräulein Grete and carried my cloak which Mother sent me because of the rain and he saw me home after supper. To-morrow is my birthday and everyone has been invited and Mother has made strawberry cream and waffles. How spiffing. July 30th. To-day is my birthday. Father gave me a splendid parasol with a flowered border and painting materials and Mother gave me a huge postcard album for 800 cards and stories for schoolgirls and Dora gave me a beautiful box of notepaper and Mother had made a chocolate-cream cake for dinner to-day as well as the strawberry cream. The first thing in the morning the Warths sent me three birthday cards. And Robert has written on his: With deepest respect your faithful R. It is glorious to have a birthday, everyone is so kind, even Dora. Oswald sent me a wooden paper-knife, the handle is a dragon and the blade shoots out of its 70

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mouth instead of flame; or perhaps the blade is its tongue, one can’t be quite sure. It has not rained yet on my birthday. Father says I was born under a lucky star. That suits me all right, tip top. July 31st. Yesterday was heavenly. We laughed till our sides ached over Consequences. I was always being coupled with Robert and oh the things we did together, not really of course but only in writing: kissed, hugged, lost in the forest, bathed together; but I say, I wouldn’t do that! Quarrelled. That won’t happen, it’s quite impossible! Then we drank my health clinking glasses five times and Robert wanted to drink it in wine but Dora said that would never do! The real trouble was this. She always gets furious if she has to play second fiddle to me and yesterday I was certainly first fiddle. … August 7th. There has been such a fearful row about Dora. Oswald told father that she flirted so at the tennis court and he could not stand it. Father was in a towering rage and now we mayn’t play tennis anymore. What upset her more than anything was that Father said in front of me: This little chit of 14 is already encouraging people to make love to her. Her eyes were quite red and swollen and she couldn’t eat anything at supper because she had such a headache!! We know all about her headaches. But I really can’t see why I shouldn’t go and play tennis. August 8th. Oswald says that wasn’t the student’s fault at all but only Dora’s. I can quite believe that when I think of that time on the Southern Railway. Still, they won’t let me play tennis any more, though I begged and begged Mother to ask Father to let me. She said it wouldn’t do no good for Father was very angry and I mustn’t spend whole days with the Warths any more. Whole days! I should like to know when I was a whole day there. When I went there naturally I had to stay to dinner at least. What have I got to do with Dora’s love affairs? It’s really too absurd. But grown-ups are always like that. When one person has done anything the others have to pay for it too. August 9th. Thank goodness, I can play tennis once more; I begged and begged until father let me go. Dora declares that nothing will induce her to ask! That’s the old story of the fox and the grapes.3 She has been playing the invalid lately, won’t bathe, and stays at home when she can instead of going for walks. I should like to know what’s the matter with her. What I can’t make out is why Father lets her do it. As for Mother, she always spoils Dora; Dora is Mother’s favourite, especially when Oswald is not on hand. I can understand her making a favourite of Oswald, but not of Dora. Father always says that parents have no favourites, but treat us all their children alike. That’s true enough as far as Father is concerned, although Dora declares that Father makes a favourite of me; but that’s only her fancy. At Christmas and other times we always get the same sorts of presents, and that’s the real test. Rosa Plank always gets at least three times as much as the rest of the family, that’s what it is to be a favourite. August 12th. I can’t write every day for I spend most of my time with the Warths. Oswald can’t stand Robert, he says he is a cad and a greenhorn. What 71

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vulgar phrases. For three days I haven’t spoken to Oswald except when I really had to. When I told Erna and Liesel about it, they said that brothers were always rude to their sisters. I said, I should like to know why. Besides, Robert is generally very nice to his sisters. They said, Yes before you, because he’s on his best behaviour with you. Yesterday we laughed like anything when he told us what fun the boys make of their masters. That story about the cigarette ends was screamingly funny. They have a society called T. Au. M., that is in Latin Be Silent or Die in initial letters. No one may betray the society’s secrets, and when they make a new member he has to strip off all his clothes and lie down naked and every one spits on his chest and rubs it and says: Be One of Us, but all in Latin. Then he has to go to the eldest and biggest who gives him two or three cuts with a cane and he has to swear that he will never betray anyone. Then everyone smokes a cigar and touches him of the lighted end on the arm or somewhere and says: Every act of treachery will burn you like that. And then the eldest, who has a special name which I can’t remember, tattoos on him the word Taum, that is Be Silent or Die, and a heart with the name of a girl. Robert says that if he had known me sooner he would have chosen “Gretchen.” I asked him what name he had tattooed on him, but he said he was not allowed to tell. I shall tell Oswald to look when they are bathing and to tell me. In this society they abuse the masters frightfully and the one who thinks of the best tricks to play on them is elected to the Rohon; to be a Rohon is a great distinction and the others must always carry out his orders. He said there was a lot more which he couldn’t tell me because it’s too tremendous. Then I had to swear that I would never tell anyone about the society and he wanted me to take the oath upon my knees, but I wouldn’t do that and he nearly forced me to my knees. In the end I had to give him my hand on it and a kiss. I didn’t mind giving him that, for a kiss is nothing, but nothing would induce me to kneel down. Still, I was in an awful fright, for we were quite alone in the garden and he took me by the throat and tried to force me to my knees. All that about the society he told me when we were quite alone for he said: I can’t have your name tattooed on me because it’s against our laws to have two names but now that you have sworn I can let you know what I really am and think in secret. I couldn’t sleep all night for I kept on dreaming of the society, wondering whether there are such societies in the high school and whether Dora is in a society and has a name tattooed on her. But it would be horrible to have to strip naked before all one’s schoolfellows. Perhaps in the societies of high-school girls that part is left out. But I shouldn’t like to say for sure whether I’d have Roberts name tattooed on me. August 15th. Yesterday Robert told me there are some schoolboy societies where they do very improper things, but that never happened in their society. But he didn’t say what. I said, the stripping naked seems to me awful; but he said, Oh, that’s nothing, that must happen if we are to trust one another, it’s all right as long as there’s nothing improper. I wish I knew what. I wish I knew whether Oswald knows about it, and whether he is in such a society or in a proper one and whether Father was in one. If I could only find out. But I can’t ask, for if I did I should 72

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betray Robert. When he sees me he always presses my left wrist without letting anyone see. He said that is the warning to me to be silent. But he needn’t do that really, for I never would betray him whatever happened. He said: the pain is to bind you to me. When he says that his eyes grow dark, quite black, although his eyes are really grey and they get very large. Especially in the evening when we say goodbye, it frightens me. I’m always dreaming of him. … October 4th. To-day is a holiday, the emperor’s birthday. Yesterday Resi told me something horrid. Oswald can’t go back to S. He has been up to something, I wish I knew what, perhaps something in the closet. He always stays there such a long time, I noticed that when I was in the country. Or perhaps it may have been something in his society. Inspee pretends she knows what it is but of course it isn’t true, for she doesn’t know any more than I do. Father is furious and Mother’s eyes are all red with crying. At dinner nobody says a word. If I could only find out what he’s done. Father was shouting at him yesterday and both Dora and I heard what he said: You young scamp (then there was something we couldn’t understand) and then he said, you attend to your school books and leave the girls and the married women alone you pitiful scoundrel. And Dora said: Ah, now I understand and I said: Please tell me he is my brother as well as yours. But she said: “You wouldn’t understand. It’s not suitable for such young ears.” Fancy that, it’s suitable for her ears, but not mine though she’s not quite three years older than I am, but because she no longer wears a short skirt she gives herself the airs of a grown-up lady. Such airs, and then she sneaks a great spoonful of jam so that her mouth is stuffed with it and she can’t speak. Whenever I see her do this, I make a point of speaking to her so that she has to answer. She does get in such a wax. October 9th. I know all about it now!!! That’s how babies come. And that is what Robert really meant. Not for me, thank you, I simply won’t marry. For if one marries one has to do it; it hurts frightfully and yet one has to. What a good thing that I know in time. But I wish I knew exactly how, Hella says she doesn’t know exactly herself. But perhaps her cousin who knows everything about it will tell her. It last nine months till the baby comes and then a lot of women die. It’s horrible. Hella has known it for a long time but she didn’t like to tell me. A girl told her last summer in the country. She wanted to talk about it to Lizzi her sister, really she only wanted to ask if it was all true and Lizzi ran off to her mother to tell her what Hella had said. And her mother said: “These children are awful, a corrupt generation, don’t you dare to repeat it to any other girl, to Grete Lainer, for instance,” and she gave her a box on the ear. As if she could help it! That is why she didn’t write to me for such a long time. Poor thing, poor thing, but now she can tell me all about it and we won’t betray one another. And that deceitful cat Inspee has known all about it for ages and has never told me. But I don’t understand why that time at the swing Robert said: You little fool, you wont get a baby simply from that. Perhaps Hella knows. When I go to the gymnastic lesson to-morrow I shall talk to her first and ask her about it. My goodness how curious I am to know. 73

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October 10th. I’m in a great funk, I missed my gymnastic lesson yesterday. I was upstairs at Hella’s and without meaning it I was so late I did not dare to go. And Hella said I had better stay with her that we would say that our sum was so difficult that we had not got it finished in time. Luckily we really had a sum to do. But I said nothing about it at home, for to-morrow Oswald is going to G. to Herr S’s. I thought that I knew all about it but only now has Hella really told me everything. It’s a horrible business this . . . I really can’t write it. She says that of course Inspee has it already, had it when I wrote that Inspee wouldn’t bathe, did not want to bathe; really she had it. Whatever happens one must always be anxious about it. Streams of blood says Hella. But then everything gets bl . . . That’s why in the country Inspee always switched off the light before she was quite undressed, so that I couldn’t see. Ugh! Catch me looking! It begins at 14 and goes on for 20 years or more. Hella says that Berta Franke in her class knows all about it. In the arithmetic lesson she wrote a note: Do you know what being un . . . is? Hella wrote back, of course I’ve known it for a long time. Berta waited for her after class when the Catholics were having their religion lesson and they went home together. I remember quite well that I was very angry, for they’re not chums. On Tuesday Berta came with us, for Hella had sent her a note in class saying that I knew everything and she needn’t bother about me. Inspee suspects something, she’s always spying about and sneering, perhaps she thinks that she’s the only person who ought to know anything. October 16th. To-morrow is Father’s and Dora’s birthday. Every year it annoys me that Dora should have her birthday on the same day as Father; What annoys me most of all is that she is so cocky about it, for, as Father always says, it’s a mere chance. Besides, I don’t think he really likes it. Everyone wants to have their own birthday on their own day, not to share it with someone else. And it’s always nasty to be stuck up about a thing like that. Besides, it’s not going to be a real birthday because of the row about Oswald. Father is still furious and had to stay away from the office for 2 days because he had to go to G. to see about Oswald going there.

Notes 1 Miss Grete Lainer, High School Girl. 2 This is a different term for the same thing. 3 A fable whereby a fox tells himself that the grapes which are out of reach are not worth having.

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Part 2 FAMILY AND COMMUNITY

Part 2 Family and community

The nineteenth-century emphasis on emotion as an outcome of environment and processes of child development heightened the significance of family and community to their production, while the growing influence of psychology and psychoanalysis was brought to bear on how such relationships were interpreted. Emotions were enabled by context, mediated through relationships with others, and things by which the group – and especially the family – could become central to the formation of the emotional self. The sources here highlight the competing narratives of old and new ideas in a moment of transformation. Some – such as the letters from parishioners to their priests – highlight people embedded within local relationships, and where personal feeling could be less significant than obligations to kin and moral duty. Others, like Faust’s Health Catechism or Bremer’s The Homes of the New World collapse duty into emotion, where happiness becomes a product of behavioural and spiritual choices. Yet, this was also a century that turned to the individual as a psychological creature, and so such ethical sociabilities co-existed with selfish passions and personalities that solidified in childhood but which had life-long impacts on character. Early works, like Hazlitt’s account of unrequited love that exposed these anti-social feelings were met with discomfort, but by the turn of the twentieth century, such accounts became increasingly significant to art and culture, reshaping how many people imagined their social obligations and what feeling could be exposed to view for public consumption. Sources for family and community life survive in significant number, ranging from personal letters and writings to advice books to art and literature to criminal records and popular accounts of crime. As a result, the emotional relationships of a wide range of social groups increasingly come to the fore.

9 B ERNHARD CHR I STOPH FA UST (1755–1842) , HEALTH C ATECHISM FOR US E I N SC H OOL S AND FOR DOM ES TI C IN STRUCTION (GESUNDHEI TS K ATE CHISMUS Z UM G EBRAUCHE IN DEN SCHULEN U ND BEI M HÄ USL ICHEN UNTE RRI CHTE) (Bückeburg, 1794), pp. 1–78

Bernard Christoph Faust was a German obstetrician and writer, who produced a range of texts designed at improving health amongst the general public. His ‘Health Catechism’ was aimed at children and used a popular question and answer form, which was designed to help people – especially youth – memorise the information. Catechisms were most famously deployed in religious contexts to teach people the tenets of their faith, but as useful educational tools they can be found in many settings. Faust’s writing reflects a trend amongst some medical professionals of the early nineteenth century to conflate health and spiritual concerns, where attending to the body became part of moral practice. In his catechism children are taught to interpret care for their bodies as a moral duty, reinforcing his claims with bible verses on similar topics. Notably, and reflecting the growth in utilitarian ideas that saw pleasure and pain as drivers of human behaviour, the healthy body is a happy body, and pain and unpleasant emotions signs of physical and moral disorder. As a source for the history of emotion, this catechism highlights how if the moral framework that shaped understandings of emotion evolved in light of new sciences and biologies, that nonetheless this did not reduce the significance of religious teaching to how emotions were understood. Moreover, as a catechism designed for the education of children, and which includes a myriad of detail about appropriate parenting for health and happiness, it is a text that provides insight into how nineteenth-century families educated and explained emotions to their children, and learned to enable such feeling. … 79

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Q. 1. Dear Children, to breathe, to live in this world, created by God, is it an advantage? Is it to enjoy happiness and pleasure? A. Yes. To live is to enjoy happiness and pleasure; for life is a precious gift of the Almighty. Ps. cl. 6. Let every thing that has breath praise the Lord. Ps. cxlv. 16. Thou, O Lord, satisfiest the desire of every thing living. Ps. xxxvi. 5, 8. Thy mercy, O Lord, is in the heavens; and thy faithfulness reacheth unto the clouds. They shall be abundantly satisfied with the fatness of thy house; and thou shalt make them drink of the river of thy pleasures. Ps. cxxxvi. 1, 8, 9, 25. O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good. To him that made the sun to rule by the day; the moon and stars to rule by night; who gives food to all flesh: For his mercy endureth for ever. Q. 2. What other proofs have we to shew that life is an excellent gift of God? A. The instinct, or natural anxiety of mankind to preserve it. Q. 3. What must be the state of the human body, the habitation and slave of the soul, that man may enjoy a long, prosperous, and happy life? A. It must be healthy. Q. 4. How else can you prove that man ought to be in a good state of health? A. By the commandment of God, viz. “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread,” Gen. iii. 19. Q. 5. Can we possibly promote the perfection and happiness of our souls, if we do not take proper care of our bodies? A. No. God has so intimately united soul and body, that by a rational care taken of the body, the happiness and purity of the soul is increased. Q. 6. What is understood by a state of good health? A. That the body is free from pains and infirmities, fulfils its duties cheerfully and with ease, and is always obedient to the soul. Q. 7. How does he feel who enjoys health? A. Strong; full of vigour and spirits; he relishes his meals; is not affected by wind and weather; goes through exercise and labour with ease, and feels himself always happy. Q. 8. And what are the sensations of the sick? Are they like those we have described? A. By no means; the sick man feels himself weak and languid; he has no appetite; he cannot work, nor brave wind and weather; he labours under continual anxiety and pains, and very few are the pleasures of his life. Q. 9. Can you, children, be merry and laugh, joke, and jump about, eat, drink, and sleep, when you are ill?’ A. No. We can only do so when we are in good health.

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OBSERVATION If a child be present who was ill not long ago, the Master will take the opportunity of asking him the following question:— “You was ill; tell me, did you feel yourself so happy, so easy, as you do now?” To this a sensible child will answer, or will be taught to answer— “I found myself exceedingly ill; I could neither eat, drink, nor sleep; no thing afforded me pleasure or joy; I was full of anxiety and pains; but now restored to health, thanks be to God, I know it is the greatest good.” Q. 10. The blessings of health then must be very great? A. They are indeed. Health is the most precious good, and the most certain means of enjoying all other blessings and pleasures of life. Q. 11. What says the son of Sirach of health?1 A. In Ecclesiasticus 30th Chapter, v. 14, 15, 16, he says, “Better is the poor being sound and strong of constitution, than a rich man that is afflicted in his body. Health and good estate of body are above all gold, and a strong body above infinite wealth. There are no riches above a sound body, and no joy above the joy of the heart.” Q. 12. Cannot the sick as well as the healthy, enjoy the blessings and pleasures of life? A. No. They have no charms for the sick. Q. 13. Of what use then is all worldly happiness to him who is sick, and cannot enjoy it? A. Of very little use, if any. Q. 14. If then health be the most precious boon of life, what duties has a man in   that respect to discharge towards himself? A. He must strive to preserve it. Q. 15. Is it sufficient if he take care of his own health? A. No. It is also his duty to take care of the life and health of his fellow-creatures. Q. 16. And what is the duty of parents toward their children? A. They are bound to take the tenderest care of their health and life. OBSERVATION School-masters and parents ought to seize every opportunity of impressing on the minds of their children, the great importance of the invaluable blessings of health, and the consequent duty to preserve it, by innocent pleasures, conducive to health. They ought, on the other hand, to point out the mournful instances of multiplied

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sorrows and miseries which present themselves daily to our view, in the persons of the sick and diseased. Q. 17. Do they fulfil this duty? A. Very seldom. Q. 18. Why so seldom? A. 1. Because few of them are sensible of the real value of health. 2. Most of them are ignorant of the structure and state of the human body. 3. Equally ignorant of what is conducive or hurtful to health. Q. 19. What is the cause of this ignorance? A. The want of proper instructions. Q. 20. But as God wills the happiness of all mankind, should they, not be brought from ignorance to the knowledge of truth? A. Yes. It would be right; good, and dutiful to instruct every body, particularly little children like us, and to teach us the structure of the human body, and the best means of preserving health. Q. 21. Is it not, therefore, your duty to pay the greatest attention to the instructions which you are now to receive, respecting the most valuable boon of life? A. We shall exert ourselves to the utmost to understand and to remember them. Q. 22. Is it sufficient to receive those instructions, and to remember them? A. No. We should also strictly conform our selves to those instructions. … Q. 45. What does the little helpless infant stand most in need of?   A. The love and care of his mother. Q. 46. Can this love and care be shewn by other persons? A. No. Nothing equals a mother’s love. Q. 47. Why does a child stand so much in need of the love and care of his mother? A. Because the attendance and nursing, the tender and affectionate treatment which a child stands in need of, can only be expected from a mother. Q. 48. How ought infants to be attended and nursed? A. They ought always to breathe fresh and pure air; be kept dry and clean, and plunged in cold water every day. Q. 49. Why so? A. Because children are thus, at the time alluded to, made more placid, because not irritated; and they grow and thrive better.

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Q. 50. Is it good to swathe a child?2 A. No. Swathing is a very bad custom, and produces in children great anxiety and pains; it is injurious to the growth of the body, and prevents children from being kept clean and dry. Q. 51. Is the rocking of children proper? A. No. It makes them uneasy, giddy, and stupid; and is therefore as hurtful to the soul as to the body. Q. 52. Do children rest and sleep without being rocked? A. Yes. If they be kept continually dry and clean, and in fresh air, they will rest and sleep well, if not disturbed; the rocking and carrying about of children is quite useless. OBSERVATION As the human soul in a state of infancy is disturbed by rocking, carrying about and dancing, such practices ought to be considered as dangerous and erroneous. The mother ought to play with the child in an affectionate and gentle manner; ought to give it frequent and mild exercise, and instil gradually into its mind a knowledge of such objects as attract its notice. Q. 53. Is it in general necessary to keep children quiet? A. Yes it is. Q. 54. What is therefore very bad? A. The making a great noise about children; and it is still worse to frighten them. Q. 55. It is, therefore, not advisable, I suppose to frighten children into sleep? A. By no means; because they may bethrown into convulsions by it. Q. 56. Is it necessary or good to give children composing draughts, or other medicines, that tend to promote sleep? A. No. They cause an unnatural, and, of course, unwholesome, sleep; and are very hurtful and dangerous. Q. 57. How long must a mother suckle her child? A. From nine to twelve months. OBSERVATION In fact the child ought to be suckled till it has two teeth in each jaw. Some children are suckled for two or three years; a practice not only erroneous, but hurtful both to mother and child. …

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Q. 63. Do affectionate careful mothers act right when they take their infants with them to bed? A. No. It is hurtful and dangerous; children ought, therefore, to lie by themselves. OBSERVATION In Italy, mothers who take their sucklings to bed with them use a machine, which protects them from all injury and danger. It is called Arcuccio, and is 3 feet 2 inches long; and the head-board 14 inches broad, and 13 inches high. Q. 64. Is it necessary to keep infants very warm? A. No. They must not be kept too warm. Q. 65. Is it good to cover their heads? A. By no means; it causes humours to break out. OBSERVATION From the hour of birth the head of a child ought to be kept uncovered. Mothers will find that, even in the coldest night, when they lay their hands on an infant’s head, it is always warm. Q. 66. Children are eager to stare at everything, particularly at the light; what is to be observed with regard to this? A. They ought to be immediately turned so as to have the object in a direct line before them; they should never be suffered to look at it sideways, as that would cause them to squint. Q. 67. By what means is the getting of teeth rendered difficult and dangerous? A. By caps; by keeping the head too warm; by uncleanliness, and improper food, over-feeding, bad air, and want of exercise. OBSERVATION Nature herself causes pains at teething-time, and the child is afterwards the cause of many more. It may not be amiss here to observe, 1. That pains and sufferings are the first instructors of man; they teach him to avoid ills, and make him provident, compassionate, humane, and courageous 2. Natural bodily pain, in many instances, and particularly in childhood, is less hurtful to man and his happiness, than the anxiety and mortification of soul which a child suffers that is irritated, put in a passion, or treated with contempt; and it is as bad to frighten children. Q. 68. What is to be observed with regard to making children walk?

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A. They ought not to be taught to walk in strings, or chairs, or go-carts, or be led by the arm; they ought to be suffered to creep on the floor, till by degrees they learn to walk. Q. 69. How can we best assist children in speaking? A. We ought to pronounce the words to them very distinctly and slowly; first single sounds, and then easy words. OBSERVATION It is of the greatest importance that man, from his earliest infancy, should be accustomed to a distinct pronunciation. Q. 70. What are the principal reasons why one-fourth of the number of children that come into the world die in the course of the first two years? A. Want of fresh pure air, uncleanliness, bad indigestible food, particularly mealpap; the anxiety and misery of parents are also among the causes of the death of so many children. … Q. 80. What particular purpose is answered by children living together? A. They learn to know, to understand, and to love each other, and so lay a foundation for unanimity, mutual fondness, and the happiness of their lives. Q. 81. But if children live in society merry and happy together, can that have any influence upon them when they arrive at a state of maturity? A. Yes; it contributes very much to make man spend his life, according to his destination, in virtue and happiness. Q. 82. By what means are those wise designs of Nature promoted? A. By activity, and gentle, though constant exercise both of the mind and body of children. Q. 83. Is such exercise compatible with the nature of children? A. Yes; children are full of vigour and activity, sense and feeling; they are joyful and merry, and desire to associate with other children. OBSERVATION From the twelfth to the eighteenth year the supple body should be invigorated by exercise and plays; the intuitive mind, by instruction and reflection, may lay up a store of knowledge, and man, whose infancy was passed in joy and happiness, learn to become virtuous in his youth; and he will become so if he has experienced the vicissitudes of Fortune, her smiles and frowns, and shared his

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joys with others; if he firmly believes that all the descendants of Adam have an equal right to enjoy pleasures, and are equally obnoxious to pain; and that an all-wise good God created every thing good, and mankind, with a view of making them happy. Q. 84. What ought we further particularly to observe with respect to children? A. That children be suffered to exercise their bodies and minds in company with each other in the open air. OBSERVATION Parents ought not only to be present at the exercises and amusements of their children, and guard them from all dangers and injuries, but they ought also to encourage them, and lead them to all that is good and becoming by their own virtuous example. Q. 85. Ought female children to receive the same education as boys in their infancy? A. Yes; that they may at a future period enjoy the blessings of perfect health as well as men. OBSERVATION The most pernicious consequences to the rising generation flow from separating female children, at the earliest period of their existence, from male children; from dressing them in a different manner, preventing them from taking the same kind of exercise, and compelling them to lead a more sedentary life. Q. 86. What are the consequences of preventing children from taking the necessary exercises before the ninth year? A. Their growth is impeded, and they remain weak and sickly for life. Q. 87. What effect will it have upon children if they are kept to too hard work before the twelfth year? A. They will very soon grow stiff, and old before their time. … Q. 103. What other reason is there for making this distinction between the dress of children and grown-up persons? A. To induce children to live with less restraint and greater happiness in the society of each other; to impress upon their minds an idea of their weak, helpless condition, in order thereby to check the too early ebullitions of that pride which leads children to ape the customs and actions of grown-up persons; a practice unbecoming at their age, and dangerous to their health and morals. … 86

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Q. 115. When children appear always combed and washed, and in a clean shirt, and dressed from top to toe with decency and cleanliness, what is commonly concluded from it? A. That their parents are sensible, kind, and loving. Q. 116. And with respect to the children themselves? A. They are beloved: the boy will become a worthy man, the girl an excellent wife; and both imitate the example of their parents. … Q. 147. What benefit doth the whole family derive from such order and cleanliness? A. It tends to preserve their health; makes all work easy, and renders life joyous and happy. … Q. 243. How are people to conduct themselves in thunder-storms, when they are in the fields? A. They are not to run, or trot, or Gallop, or stand still, but to keep on walking or riding quietly, slowly, and without fear. OBSERVATION Here the school-master is to explain to the children the nature and causes of thunder and lightning, in order to prevent those fears and false impressions which are made upon the human mind, when children are suffered to form erroneous notions of them. Herds or flocks in thunder-storms ought not to be driven, hunted, or overheated, or suffered to stand still, or assemble close together; they ought to be separated, and divided into small numbers; and people should take care not to come too near to them. … OBSERVATION Our sight and hearing, if not sufficiently improved, may deceive us during the night, or when the mental faculties are impaired by fear or prejudice: hence the origin of the absurd belief in spectres. But if our senses be rendered perfect; if we approach, and courageously endeavour to touch whatever imagination conjures up to our view, and if we explore whatever place a noise issues from, we shall soon be delivered from our delusion, and from the belief in the existence of spectres, witches, and all such absurdities. Those who tell stories of spectres to children, with a view to frighten them, are highly reprehensible; and should be excluded from all share in the education of youth. … 87

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Q. 308. A sick person is a poor, helpless creature, oppressed by anxiety and pains;— how, then, ought he to be treated? A. With the greatest tenderness, kindness, and affection; he ought to be attended and nursed with great and judicious care.

Notes 1 Sirach is the author of Ecclesiastes, a book of the Bible. 2 Swathe here means to wrap up or swaddle.

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10 D AN IEL WEBS TER (1 7 8 2 – 1 8 5 2 ) , THE P RIVAT E CORRES PONDENCE OF DANIEL WEBS TER Ed. Fletcher Webster, 2 vols (Boston: Brown and Co, 1857), pp. 80–82, 92–94, 95–98

Daniel Webster was an American lawyer and later politician, ultimately becoming the US Secretary of State. The letters below were written when he was finishing his studies at university as a young man to his close friend James Hervey Bingham (1781–1859), who was just starting out on his own career. Bingham and Webster were to remain friends across their lives, and their affectionate correspondence is evidence of the depth of their connection. It is an example of what historians have sometimes called ‘romantic friendship’, where public life provided space for men and women to express their feelings for same-sex friends using a rich vocabulary of affection, perhaps even romance. Such relationships reflected the significant space for emotional expression within friendship of the period, and that friendships often competed in significance with relationships that led to marriage. Eventually such affectionate language reduced, and so these letters provide useful evidence to historians of trends in emotional language and in how this shaped social relationships. They also evidence how the expression of emotion is closely tied to contemporary ideas about gender. In these letters, affectionate language is combined with social news of other students, friends and family, as well as their hopes and dreams for the future. It is worth noting the effort and care placed in writing these letters – which include original poems, witty commentary, and attempts to appear knowledgeable and worldly – where the time taken to compose an entertaining letter reflected the affections of the writer for the reader. … Salisbury, February 11, 1800. Brother Bingham,—I now sit down in poor spirits to write a poor letter, to—a poor fellow, shall I say? No, say rather, to the friend of my heart, the partner of my joys, griefs, and affections, the only participator of my most secret thoughts. I 89

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arrived here yesterday, seasonably for school, and having undergone the fatigues of the day, I retired to rest at nine o’clock, and surrendered myself to the dominion of Morpheus. At ten, I was awaked, and informed that Captain McClure, and Senior Curtis were below. I soon disengaged myself from the “slumbering god,” and hastened to extend them the friendly right hand, accompanied with a hearty how do you do! They left Hanover almost two weeks since; and have taken a tour to the southeast. By them I was favored with two letters from our friends at college, which, although dated some time ago, gave me much pleasure. Clark writes that he has taken the school there at twenty-four dollars per month. Doctor Marsh offered himself for fifteen, but was not received. “This,” Clark observes, “feeds my vanity, but not my purse.” In the course of his letter he observes, “blow ye Northern blasts with tenfold fury; beat back the pestilential breeze of matrimony, or my Icarus is fallen forever!” What does he hint at here? How should he know that I was just about to (try to) be married? My amour, you very well know, had not commenced the last time I wrote to him. He says he is well and happy; that he has heard from many of our friends who are in health. This information carries joy to the hearts of J. H. B. and D. W. While you rejoice with me in the health and happiness of our brother students, I presume from the goodness of your heart, that you will join me in commiserating him who stands next to yourself on the catalogue of my friends. I mean Bracket; he has lost a sister; he is afflicted, and we will mourn. We have seen him in those happy hours, when every heart palpitated with joy, and every eye sparkled with benevolence; and we should be equally happy to meet him now and mingle souls in mournful sympathy. Though not personally acquainted with the deceased lady, it is enough to entitle her to a share in our remembrance that she was the sister of J. W. B. For his sake, then, we will shed the friendly tear and embalm her memory in our hearts. After the people were gone to bed, I wrote an answer to Clark, and presumed to offer him your best respects; this I conceived I had a right to do, since, between you and me, cor corde mutatur.1 I also wrote to H. W. F., and endeavored, with as much delicacy as I was able, to return the – puellarum pulcherriniarum2 so politely bestowed on J. H. B. and D. W. Capt. McClure, in his journey, saw Freeborn, and D. Osgood, and J. Dutch, &c. who are well. In the letter which you did me the honor to send me, you have the following sentence, “cave, nequis videat, &c.;”3 though it be very handsome Latin, and I can find no fault with it as a critic, yet, my dear Hervey, I must confess it surprises me much. Do you suspect my integrity? Do you imagine that I would do any thing which should endanger your reputation? I certainly suspect no such things from you, and therefore never think to insert such an idea. If a letter from a friend chance to be written inaccurately, as is often the case when written calamo currente,4 which, by the way, could not be said of yours, it behooves the receiver to consider it accordingly. Upon the whole, that sentence, though its like is frequently seen in letters, argues a suspicion of my sincerity, which, were I assured it really existed, would prove an eternal alloy to my felicity. But I am willing to impute it to custom, to compliment, or, as you say, to any thing else rather than to suspicion. 90

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It is now nine o’clock; before I began this letter I read a chapter in Mallet du Pan’s History of The Destruction of the Helvetic Union. I read till I saw Switzerland ravaged and depopulated, her sons barbarously butchered, and blood flowing in torrents from the side of the Alps! All this I saw done by the intrigue of perfidious France. The scene was too affecting; I closed the book and exclaimed, “Havoc and spoil and ruin are thy gains; destruction is thy sport; blood, groans, and desolation are thy triumphs, thou magnanimous republic!!! Switzerland, which has been a republic for almost five hundred years, is now no more. The descendants of the immortal Tell, who rescued his country from Austrian tyranny, have nothing now left, as the historian observes, but rocks, ruins, and demagogues.” “Ah, curst ambition, what hast thou done!” Nor is it enough that Switzerland, Venice, Genoa, and every other republic in Europe has fallen a prey to the despots of Paris; one quarter of the world cannot satiate their ambition. The worshipper of the Alcoran must be molested, the wandering Arab attacked, and slaughter carried to the forests of Africa. Their empire must be bounded only by the limit of their ambition; their ambition is coextensive with the universe. I expect that Blanchard will soon be despatched with his aerial squadron to attack the moon; to revolutionize the Lunarians by the same means that Talleyrand used to disturb the peace of his Satanic Majesty. . . . No more politics. “—Sylvarumque potens Diana.” A Fable.5 Bright Phoebus long all rival suns outshone, And rode triumphant on his splendid throne; When first he waked the blushes of the dawn, And spread his beauties o’er the flowery lawn, The yielding stars quick hastened from the sky, Nor moon dare longer with his glories vie; He reigned supreme, and decked in roseate light Beamed his full splendors on the astonished sight. At length, on earth, behold a damsel rise, Whose growing beauties charmed the wondering skies! As forth she walked to breathe the balmy air, And view the beauties of the gay parterre, Her radiant glories drowned the blaze of day, And through all nature shot a brighter ray. Old Phoebus saw—and blushed—now forced to own, That with superior worth the damsel shone. Graced with his name, he bade her ever shine, And in his rival owned a form divine! I am, Sir, with much respect, yours in the indissoluble bonds of fraternal love, Dan. Webster. … 91

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Salisbury, September 22, 1801. Brother Hervey,—I yesterday opened the packet which contained your letter, with a mixture of hope and fear, anxiety and indifference. As it came by way of Hanover, I suspected it might be a communication from that place, replete with groans and despondency, which, however I pity, I cannot relieve. But when I perceived it bore the marks of your penmanship, I confess in honesty, that I felt more exultation of spirit than has been my allotment since I saw you last. I have been fixing on a time to visit you ever since Commencement,6 but the uncertainty of finding you has kept me from attempting it. I am sure you must read with pleasure and advantage in Mr. West’s office, if you should conclude upon it, as I hope you will, if you do not see fit to come down nearer us. I have precipitated myself into an office, with how much prudence I do not now allow myself to reflect. I am not like you, harassed with dreams, nor troubled with any waverings of inclination; but am rather sunken in indifference and apathy. I have read some since Commencement, learned a little, forgotten a good deal, and should be glad to forget much more. As to Coke and Blackstone,7 whom you mention as my probable intimates, “I tender them the homage of my high respects,” and leave the “tenure of their position undisturbed.” With the assistance of my first minister, Monsieur Gallatin, formerly called Leo, I have dismissed from the office of this life, a few federal partridges, pigeons, and squirrels, and have drawn from the abundance of Merrimac a few anti-federal fishes, no loaves, such as swordback, perch, and flat-headed demi-semi-crotchet- quavers, alias scaly flat-sides. I’ll mend pen. Thus, you see, I follow the fashion of the great. There is a disciple of Hume,8 the skeptic, in the other corner of the office, who doubts whether the sun be anything or nothing. I shall leave Abbott to convert him from his errors, and go on to tell you that I have seen Dr. Gerrish, who had much to interrogate about you, and joined his request to mine that you would come to Concord if agreeable to your interest. Sanbornton folks are as usual. Andrew does business as fast as ever, and every week calls at the office. I must have some dinner. I expect to meet many disappointments in the prosecution of the law. I find I have calculated too largely on the profession. For this reason I have engaged a new auxiliary to support me under mortification; it is tobacco. I have heard much of philosophical fortitude, but never knew what it was, unless it be a sullen unfeelingness, a cold temper, or inhuman heart. But tobacco inspires courage of another kind, deliberate, yet immovable; affectionate and feeling, yet despising danger. Since I have used this great catholicon, I suspect that Cato and John Rogers were not unacquainted with the virtues of the goodly leaf; else whence derived they their firmness? Oh! tobacco, how many hearts hast thou saved from the destructions of coquetry! How many throats of bankrupts hast thou preserved from their own penknives! 92

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Come, then, tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy suppliant attend In each dull, lonely hour; And though misfortunes lie around, Thicker than hailstones on the ground, I’ll rest upon thy power. Then, while the coxcomb pert and proud, The politician learned and loud, Keep one eternal clack, I’ll tread where silent nature smiles, Where solitude our woes beguiles, And chew thee, dear tobac. If you will write me immediately, dear Hervey, and inform me where I shall find you, I will set out in the course of a few weeks. I would not ride forty miles to see anybody living but yourself; but since ’tis you, I will do it gladly. I have a thousand things to talk about beside my tobacco. College still has its impressions. My thoughts will look back to Hanover now and then, but as they cannot contemplate you there, they turn back dissatisfied. Ezekiel sets out next week for the place of his residence. I shall send the Carey letters by him to Hanover, where he will put them in the mail. Lemuel is reading divinity at Boscawen with Mr. Wood, and is the only one of our class I have seen since the valedictory day. You will see the propriety of apologizing as much as possible for the sterility of Commencement. Tell people it is because they discouraged genius. I hope to squeeze your hand soon; till when I have no other enjoyment than books afford, together with the society of my second Hervey, Abbott, and Mr. Thompson, who, when he relaxes from business, which he prosecutes with unwearied attention, is entertaining and instructive. Good-bye, Jemmy; you may guess, but I cannot tell, how much happiness is wished you by D. Webster. P. S. Look, I really have written this illegibly and inaccurately. Pray let no one see it, for though it is shameful to be under the necessity of such a request, I am unwilling to be exposed. Present me to your parents and friends with respect. … Salisbury, October 26, 1801. O Bingham, and Bingham forever! There is a kind of magic in your pen; I know not how it is, but if you write in a language perfectly unknown, you afford me more pleasure than a well-penned and intelligible letter from a common friend. Of all folks in the world I should last think of flattering you; but, in honesty, I 93

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knew not how closely our feelings were interwoven; had no idea how hard it would be to live apart, when the hope of living together again no longer existed. However it may be thought rebellion against nature, I must confess, if I were this day to embark for Europe, my regret at leaving any other person would not be greater than at leaving you. You may judge therefore, whether your letters are not acceptable. I rejoice most heartily to learn that you are settled so agreeably. Charlestown must be a pleasant place. Though your cousin Solon be absent, yet you will, no doubt, find friends. I agree with you, that Mr. Hale is one of the best “fraters.”9 So far as I know him, I highly respect him. Report speaks extremely well of Mr. West; representing him as the oracle of the law, in Cheshire County. The only objection I ever heard against him, is his unwillingness to enter into public employment, at a period when the perverse nature of the times renders his talents and character necessary. You must, I think, make proficiency with him; if I judge from your progress hitherto, you will take your leave of me soon. You have actually read almost as much law as I, though you have been at it not half so long. I was reading Shakespeare, when I received your letter, but soon laid him by, and took up Blackstone. Mr. Thompson has gone to Boston, Mr. Abbott to Salem, and I am in consequence alone, and shall be probably for some weeks. I have made some few writs, and am now about to bring an action of trespass for breaking a violin. The owner of the violin was at a husking, where “His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet”10 were making the girls skip over the husks as nimbly as Virgil’s Camilla over the tops of the corn, till an old surly creature caught his fiddle and broke it against the wall. For the sake of having plump witnesses, the plaintiff will summon all the girls to attend the trial at Concord. If the Funeral Oration be thought decent, I am contented; equal to the subject it is not. The death of Simonds was a theme on which the first writers ought to be proud to point their pens. “Hei nihi! Qualis erat!”11 I know not how many times I have been asked, whether you were not to read law in this quarter. A lady observed, she should be very well pleased to have Mr. B. in the office. Surely she would not be more pleased than I. My old friend Harper is expected here soon, to finish his reading. A rich acquisition to the gallantry of our office. The scarcity of company here renders it impossible to spend time pleasantly abroad; for entertainment, I betake myself to Mr. T.’s belles-lettres library, which affords a pretty variety of reading. How Mr. Harper will relish our amusements is not to be told; I wish he may be pleased. Friend Lemy is at Mr. Wood’s, reading the best of all professions. He certainly has gained cent, per cent, the last year. Campbell went to Concord after Commencement, and rode round with Miss Abbott; he’s gone! Cupid has bored his heart through like a sieve. Doctor Gridley is really doing well; he thinks you neglect him in not writing to him. “Powerful,” indeed, is our representation to Congress. Goodrich, Granger, Edwards, step ye aside! I have not heard a word from F. Hunt; nor from Herbert. 94

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Am alarmed at intelligence from Clarke; he is said to be declining visibly! Brackett, I believe, is in good health . . . Afternoon.—The most unpleasant information I have yet to communicate. The “state of things” renders it highly doubtful whether I stay in this office two weeks! I certainly shall not under present circumstances. My father sets out on a journey next week, the issue of which will determine me. It mortifies me, beyond expression, to relinquish my study at this period; but I cannot, cannot help it! Necessity is unrelenting and imperious. If I should leave this place, I look to the Province of Maine for residence; or perhaps Salem. Am I to run Carey’s race? O! O! Dear Hervey, how changeable is fortune! Seven weeks ago I was fixed, and you wavering; now you are settled, and I probably on the point of removing. I never was half so much dispirited as now. Though I make myself easy as I can, yet I am really very unpleasantly circumstanced. Well, I owe submission to the awards of Providence. I will submit. I must see you before I go, if I should go, for probably I shall not meet you again very soon. I look with great anxiety to the termination of next week. May it be successful!! Good-bye, James, may mercy take care of you. Accept all the tenderness I have. D. Webster. Mr. Thompson is made Trustee of Dartmouth College. Doctor Gerrish is anxious to see you. Of nobody he talks so much when I see him. I tell him you will no doubt visit Sanbornton in the winter, and we calculate on having a good interview. But I am resolved to see you before winter, else, perhaps, I shall see you not at all. Lovejoy is happy as a churchman with his new little wife. All the rest of Sanbornton is just as you left it. Doctor G. lives in his own house; has taken in a family. I thank you for your receipt for greasing boots. Have this afternoon to ride to the South road, and in truth my boots admit not only water, but peas and gravel-stones. I wish I had better ones. As for my new “friend tobacco,” he is like most of that name; has made me twice sick and is now dismissed. Heigho! A man wants a remedy against his neighbor, whose lips were found damage feasant on his, the plaintiff’s, wife’s cheek! What is to be done? But you have not read the law about kissing. I will write for advice and direction to Barrister Fuller. N. B. Let no one know that I think of quitting these realms. Write often, my best friend, for these conveniences of correspondence may not last long. As you once told me, “write soon, write very soon, write now!”

Notes 1 Heart to heart unchanging. 2 Pretty girls. 3 Take heed to thyself, see to it that no one, &c [Likely indicating that the content of the letter should not be shared: Cave, nequis videat ista dicta]. 4 Extempore; off the cuff.

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5 Powerful Diana of the Woods; this is an original poem but is responding to Horace’s poetry on this topic. 6 A ceremony for students near the end of the university studies. 7 Edward Coke (1552–1634) and William Blackstone (1723– 1780). 8 David Hume (1711–1776). 9 Brothers. 10 Shakespeare, All’s Well that Ends Well (1623). 11 Oh my! How sad he looked.

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11 THE CONFESSION OF M ARY C O LE, WHO WAS EX ECUTED F R IDAY, 26 T H JUNE , 1 8 1 3 AT N E WTON, SUSSEX COUNTY FOR THE MURDER OF AGNES TEAURS , HER MOT HER (New York, [1813])

The following account of the murder of Agnes Teaurs by her daughter in Sussex County, New York, was printed in a chapbook, a small pamphlet sold cheaply for a wide audience. It provided a history of the murder within a Dutch migrant family to the United States, where tensions within a multi-generational household led to a violent crime. The chapbook appears to have brought together a range of earlier news publications with a confession into one document, providing a complete account of this high-profile event. Crime writers often sold salacious news about horrible crimes by locating them within a moral framework that provided a justification for its telling – the reader could learn and be warned of the importance of managing the passions to good order. As a source for historians of emotions, such pamphlets provide evidence of family dynamics and how they sometimes collapsed under stress; they also offer insight into community relationships, including the Christian support offered to those under sentence of death, as the sinner was encouraged to recognise their wrong-doing. As befits the morality of this tale (but which is not always the case), Mary Cole performed her expected role, with her repentance displayed upon her body and described to readers as evidence that justice was served. Thus, this pamphlet provides a conservative vision of moral order, affirming the horror of this crime and that execution was a suitable punishment. In this sense, crime writing could also discourage unrest by the public where the death penalty was always a contentious punishment. Historians can therefore attend to such documents for their uses of emotional rhetoric when describing events. …

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Savage Brutality Sussex County, New Jersey THE most shocking, inhuman and unnatural murder has lately been discovered near this place, that I think I have ever heard of. A man by the name of Cornelius A. Cole, a Low Dutchman from the county of Bergen, had moved into this county, and lived about five miles from this town. His wife’s mother, whose name was Agnes Teaurs, lived with him. She was possessed of some property, and in consequence of some arrangement between them, she having conveyed some property to him, he had undertaken to pay to her fifty dollars a year, during her life. She had also in the course of the last summer or fall lent to him, or paid for him, six or eight hundred dollars, on accounts of lands which he had bought in this county. It seems that neither Cole nor his wife lived happily with the mother, nor either of them used her well. In the month of December last, the old lady suddenly disappeared; and it was said by Cole and his wife, that she had got offended, and had gone to her brothers in Bergen; although she had some relations living in the neighbourhood, they supposing the case was so, took no trouble to make further inquiry concerning the matter. About two months after this, Cole rented out his farm here, and moved back with his family into the county of Bergen, where he remained until last week, when the above discovery was made, in the following manner: The family who were living in the house which Cole had left, imagined that they perceived an unusual and unpleasant smell about the house, and supposing it to proceed from under the floor, pulled up some of the boards, and to their great astonishment, discovered the dead body of a female, partly covered up in a shallow hole, with Ashes on some swingle tow. An alarm was immediately given, and the neighbours collected, when it was soon sufficiently ascertained that it was the body of the old lady, Cole’s mother-in-law. A coroner’s jury was immediately collected, and three or four men were dispatched to Judge Pennington, for a warrant to apprehend Cole and his wife. Before the coroner’s jury, the person of the old lady was fully identified, although her face was much disfigured, and her features destroyed, yet she was well identified by a scar on one of her feet, which was proved by a woman who was examined before the jury. In the course of the examination, it appeared that her skull had been fractured by a severe blow of an axe or hammer, and her throat cut from one ear to the other. The jury found the verdict, from a variety of strong circumstances before them, of “wilful murder, committed by Cole and his wife.” The persons who were dispatched in pursuit of Cole and his wife, found them in a retired place, living in a very indifferent dwelling; they were apprehended and taken before Judge Pennington, at Newark, on Wednesday or Thursday last, and by him committed to the jail of this place. What the nature of the examination before him was, and what, or whether any confessions were made before him, I have not heard. They were both delivered into the hands of the Sheriff of this county, on Friday morning last, and are now safely in the custody of the jailor. There are a number of reports in circulation, (as is usual on such occasions) with 98

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respect to the confessions of the facts and circumstances, made by the prisoners. As far as I am able to collect, what I suppose is the truth on the occasion, (not having heard any confessions made by the prisoners themselves) it appears to be this: The wife of Cole had voluntarily confessed, that she had, on the night of the 15th of December last, a quarrel and dispute with her mother; that Cole, her husband, had gone to bed, and was asleep—had been in bed about 10 minutes; that her mother struck or kicked her; that she, Mrs Cole, took up an axe and struck her on the head, and knocked her down and then took a jack-knife and cut her throat; that she then awakened Cole, and told him what she had done; that he then got up, but, after some little time, they concluded to let her lie till morning; that they went to bed, and left the old lady lying on the floor—in the morning, about sun-rise, they got up and put the body of the deceased into a small hole under the floor, and covered it with ashes and tow. It is said, and no doubt it is true, that a short time after this, Cole went off to Bergen, or New York, on business, and left his wife alone, where she remained a week without any living person about the house with her. The next morning after the murder was committed, Cole and his wife gave it out that the old lady had got affronted, and had gone off to Begen—and so it was believed until the above discovery was made. The Oyer and Terminer sits here this week, when, no doubt, they will both be indicted and tried. … At a Court of Oyer and Terminer, held in Sussex County last week, at which Judge Pennington presided, Cornelius A. Cole and Mary Cole, his wife, were tried for the murder of Agnes Teaurs. Mary Cole was convicted, but her husband Cornelius A. Cole, was acquitted of the murder. Cornelius A. Cole was also indicted for concealing the murder; to this indictment he pleaded guilty. The facts which appeared on the trial of Mary Cole, in part, made out from her own confessions, after she was apprehended, were in substance as follow: Agnes Teaurs, the deceased, was the mother of Mary Cole; she was her only child:—May Cole and her husband, with two small children and the deceased lived together in one house, and made one family. Some time in December last, after some of the neighbors had left the house, where they had spent the evening; it was late; not far from twelve o’clock, the husband had gone to bed, in the same room. Mary Cole and her mother, the deceased, quarrelled; in this quarrel Mary knocked her mother down with an axe, and immediately cut her throat. It did not appear that her husband any way aided his wife. In one of the relations of the facts made by Mary Cole, she in some measure endeavour to exculpate herself by saying that her mother, in the quarrel, approached her (Mary) in a threatening manner with a knife; at othertimes she ignores the facts of knocking her mother down with an axe, and cutting her throat, without detailing any of the accompany circumstances. After this was done, the husband acknowledges that he, at the request of his wife, assisted in placing the corpse under the floor of the kitchen, and doing a variety of acts to conceal the murder on screen his wife. In March, Cole and his wife moved out of the county, and rented the house they then 99

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lived in, leaving the corpse under the floor, where it was discovered about a fortnight ago, and Cole and his wife were apprehended in Bergen County, to which they had removed in March. The prosecution was contended with ability, decorum and humanity by Mr Southward, district attorney, and the prisoners defended by Mr Halsey and Freylinghuysen, with great eloquence and strength of argument. The object aimed at by the counsel of Mary Cole, was to lessen her crime to that of manslaughter. Her conviction was perfectly satisfactory to all who heard the trial, and she was sentenced to be hung on Friday the 26th inst. Cornelius A. Cole was sentenced to two years imprisonment in the State Prison, and pay a fine of 250 dollars for concealing the murder. … The following Journal and Confession was taken by a person who attended Mary Cole while in Prison, and to the place of execution, and may be relied on as correct. When I first visited Mary Cole, I found her bound in chains in the prison, and seemed in great exercise of mind, and great agony; yea, her soul was exceedingly sorrowful, even unto death; the exercise of her mind was such that threw her into chills and sweats. I asked her what she thought of the world to come, telling her she had no eternal life in her when she committed the horrible deed for which she was shortly about to suffer, yet that mercy which was shewn to David and the thief on the cross, and others, were still held out to her, and that God would not cast out any penitent sinner who sought his mercy; that though her sins, as mountains, rose and reached to heaven, yet mercy was above the seas, and she still might be forgiven. I told her what a great sin it was for her to kill her mother. She said she did not like to hear anything on that subject. I told her not to deceive herself, but to behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins of the world; pointed out his greatness and powers to save; that he was full of compassion and love; that his mercy endureth forever; that it was for just such as her that Christ died, and that they were whole need no physician, but they that were sick. She made answer, that she knew and felt all her sins was past away, and with great firmness and composure professed great confidence in God as a sin pardoning God. I was greatly amazed at the change professed. I shortly after left her, desiring her to watch and pray, and look to God every moment, for she had but a short time to live. In the afternoon I visited her again; she still professed to be happy, but some of those who were present on this occasion could not believe her testimony, on account of her hard expressions concerning her mother. She frequently wept much, and wish she had died when young, saying that her mother was always very hard with her;—that when her father was dead, she had no one to take her part, and not for a whole year together, her mother would sleep with herself and husband in the same bed, through another was provided for her. She requested me to inform her relations at Bergen, that she wish them to be kind to her child, a boy about three years old. 100

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At night I visited her again her request, and found there a young minister, who sung a hymn with her; and it appeared to me as though her poor disconsolate soul fed upon it. But, oh! her appearance was awful; her eyes were so wild and distorted, as to appear (comparatively speaking,) like two balls of fire, and every other mark of distress and horror. This being the last night she had to live, I staid with her till after 12 o’clock at night; all this time her coffin lay by her side. I asked her if she was afraid to remain there that night alone, but she answered no; so I prayed with her, committed her to the care of Jehovah, and left her. Next morning being the last ever was to see in this world, I visited her early. The keeper had taken her chains off, and she requested me to read for her. She told me more than once, that on the awful night that murder took place, her mother made her fast in the house, and came on her with a knife to kill her: and she herself was so filled with fear, and in such a passion, that she knew not what she did. It appears that she and her mother could not agree; therefore, I asked her why she did not leave her mother; to which she answered, that she did, but that her mother would follow her and her husband wherever they went, and seemed to say that they could not get clear of her. I told her to expect nothing but death, for I had seen her grave and gallows, and the rope ready for her neck; all this she seemed to bear with the greatest fortitude I now left her, at her request, and had some conversation with the sheriff. All things being in readiness, the prisoner came out dressed in a white robe, and being seated in a chair, a sermon was preached; which being over, they proceeded to the place of execution, about half a mile. She walked the whole way with much cheerfulness. Coming to the gallows, I told her if she had anything to say, there would be time given her, and having mounted the cart and that I’m having nearly expired which was to launch her soul into eternity, she stood trembling and said, it is a hard thing for me to die, but I must. I do not deserve to die; my mother came on me with a knife to kill me, and I was so fraid and mad, that I did not know what I did: I hope all will take warning by me, and not let their passion get the better of their judgment. She suffered much, and was a long time a dying, owing to the rope being placed nearly under her chin. Thus ended the life of this woman, in the 23rd year of her age. She said her husband was in bed and did not know of the murder till it was committed, and that he was very sorry for what happened by her, in the heat of passion. It is but justice due, and it is with pleasure we state, that the utmost attention and humanity was paid to the prisoner during her confinement, by Mr King, the keeper, whose kindness on the occasion will long be remembered.

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12 W IL LIAM HAZLITT ( 1 7 7 8 – 1 8 3 0 ) , LIBOR AMORI S ; OR THE NEW PYGM ALI ON (London: John Hunt, 1823), pp. 12–30

William Hazlitt was an Irish-English author and artist, who wrote widely on a range of topics and was a particularly renowned critic. In the 1820s after the breakdown of his first marriage, he moved into lodgings and became infatuated with his landlord’s daughter, Sarah Walker, who helped with the house-keeping. She was over twenty years younger than him, and appears to have flirted with a number of male guests, before developing a serious relationship with another lodger, Tomkins. Hazlitt’s infatuation with her led him to pursue a divorce, and he left for Scotland where one was available relatively cheaply. When he returned several months later, he found that Walker was not interested in his attention. Disappointed in love, he wrote an account of his experience in Libor Amoris, a lightly anonymised tale that was quickly identified by the public. The writing, now considered an important piece of literature which frames Hazlitt’s own unrequited love story through the lens of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, was controversial; many critics found the subject matter ‘disgusting’ or ‘low and gross’. The story, which is largely written as a series of dialogues between Hazlitt and Walker, provides insight into the flirtations and courtship rituals of the early nineteenth century, through the eyes of a middle-class male writer. The relationship – between people of different social classes and ages and under her father’s roof but without familial approval – was unflattering to Hazlitt, who would have been regarded as exploiting the family’s trust. Moreover, Hazlitt’s infatuation, not least for someone of Walker’s status, was considered unmanly and, for some, even a sign of insanity. That he wished to publicise such feeling was surprising, and suggestive to us of the emotional norms around manly emotional expression for men of his generation. …

The flageolet H. S.

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And I hope she has been giving you good advice. I did not go to ask her opinion about anything. And yet you seem anxious and agitated. You appear pale and dejected, as if your refusal of me had touched your own breast with pity. Cruel girl! you look at this moment heavenly-soft, saint-like, or resemble some graceful marble statue, in the moon’s pale ray! Sadness only heightens the elegance of your features. How can I escape from you, when every new occasion, even your cruelty and scorn, brings out some new charm. Nay, your rejection of me, by the way in which you do it, is only a new link added to my chain. Raise those down-cast eyes, bend as if an angel stooped, and kiss me. . . . Ah! enchanting little trembler! if such is thy sweetness where thou dost not love, what must thy love have been? I cannot think how any man, having the heart of one, could go and leave it. No one did, that I know of. Yes, you told me yourself he left you (though he liked you, and though he knew —Oh! gracious God!—that you loved him) he left you because “the pride of birth would not permit a union.”—For myself, I would leave a throne to ascend to the heaven of thy charms. I live but for thee, here—I only wish to live again to pass all eternity with thee. But even in another world, I suppose you would turn from me to seek him out who scorned you here. If the proud scorn us here, in that place we shall all be equal. Do not look so—do not talk so—unless you would drive me mad, I could worship you at this moment, Can I witness such perfection, and bear to think I have lost you for ever? Oh! let me hope! You see you can mould me as you like. You can lead me by the hand, like a little child; and with you my way would be like a little child’s:— you could strew flowers in my path, and pour new life and hope into me. I should then indeed hail the return of spring with joy, could I indulge the faintest hope—would you but let me try to please you! Nothing can alter my resolution, Sir. Will you go and leave me so? It is late, and my father will be getting impatient at my stopping so long. You know he has nothing to fear for you—it is poor I that am alone in danger. But I wanted to ask about buying you a flageolet. Could I see that which you have? If it is a pretty one, it would hardly be worthwhile; but if it isn’t, I thought of bespeaking an ivory one for you. Can’t you bring up your own to shew me. Not to-night, Sir, I wish you could. I cannot—but I will in the morning. Whatever you determine, I must submit to. Good night, and bless thee!

[The next morning, S. brought up the teakettle as usual; and looking towards the tea-tray, she said, “Oh! I see my sister has forgot the tea-pot.” It was not there, sure enough; and, tripping down stairs, she came up in a minute, with the tea pot 103

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in one hand, and the flageolet in the other, balanced so sweetly and gracefully. It would have been awkward to have brought up the flageolet in the tea-tray, and she could not have well gone down again on purpose to fetch it. Something, therefore, was to be omitted as an excuse. Exquisite witch! But do I love her the less dearly for it? I cannot.]

The confession H. S. H. S. H. S. H. S. H. S. H. S. H. S. H. S.

H. S. H. S. H. S. H. S.

H.

YOU say you cannot love. Is there not a prior attachment in the case? Was there any one else that you did like? Yes, there was another. Ah! I thought as much. Is it long ago then? It is two years, Sir. And has time made no alteration? Or do you still see him sometimes? No, Sir! But he is one to whom I feel the sincerest affection, and ever shall, though he is far distant. And did he return your regard? I had every reason to think so. What then broke off your intimacy? It was the pride of birth, Sir, that would not permit him to think of a union. Was he a young man of rank, then? His connections were high. And did he never attempt to persuade you to any other step? No—he had too great a regard for me. Tell me, my angel, how was it? Was he so very handsome? Or was it the fineness of his manners? It was more his manner: but I can’t tell how it was. It was chiefly my own fault. I was foolish to suppose he could ever think seriously of me. But he used to make me read with him—and I used to be with him a good deal, though not much neither—and I found my affections entangled before I was aware of it. And did your mother and family know of it? No—I have never told any one but you; nor I should not have mentioned it now, but I thought it might give you some satisfaction. Why did he go at last? We thought it better to part. And do you correspond? No, Sir. But perhaps I may see him again some time or other, though it will be only in the way of friendship. My God! what a heart is thine, to live for years upon that bare hope! I did not wish to live always, Sir—I wished to die for a long time after, till I thought it not right; and since then I have endeavoured to be as resigned as I can. And do you think the impression will never wear out?

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Not if I can judge from my feelings hitherto. It is now sometime since,—and I find no difference. May God for ever bless you! How can I thank you for your condescension in letting me know your sweet sentiments? You have changed my esteem into adoration.—Never can I harbour a thought of ill in thee again. Indeed, Sir, I wish for your good opinion and your friendship. And can you return them? Yes. And nothing more? No, Sir. You are an angel, and I will spend my life, if you will let me, in paying you the homage that my heart feels towards you.

The quarrel H. S. H.

S. H.

S. H.

S.

H.

YOU are angry with me? Have I not reason? I hope you have; for I would give the world to believe my suspicions unjust. But, oh! my God! after what I have thought of you and felt towards you, as little less than an angel, to have but a doubt cross my mind for an instant that you were what I dare not name—a common lodging-house decoy, a kissing convenience, that your lips were as common as the stairs— Let me go, Sir! Nay—prove to me that you are not so, and I will fall down and worship you. You were the only creature that ever seemed to love me; and to have my hopes, and all my fondness for you, thus turned to a mockery —it is too much! Tell me why you have deceived me, and singled me out as your victim? I never have, Sir. I always said I could not love. There is a difference between love and making me a laughing-stock. Yet what else could be the meaning of your little sister’s running out to you, and saying “He thought I did not see him!” when I had followed you into the other room? Is it a joke upon me that I make free with you? Or is not the joke rather against her sister, unless you make my courtship of you a jest to the whole house? Indeed, I do not well see how you can come and stay with me as you do, by the hour together, and day after day, as openly as you do, unless you give it some such turn with your family. Or do you deceive them as well as me? I deceive no one, Sir. But my sister Betsy was always watching and listening when Mr. M was courting my eldest sister, till he was obliged to complain of it. That I can understand, but not the other. You may remember, when your servant Maria looked in and found you sitting in my lap one day, and I was afraid she might tell your mother, you said “You did not care, for you had no secrets from your mother.” This seemed to me odd at the time, but I thought no more

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H.

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of it, till other things brought it to my mind. Am I to suppose, then, that you are acting a part, a vile part, all this time, and that you come up here, and stay as long as I like, that you sit on my knee and put your arms round my neck, and feed me with kisses, and let me take other liberties with you, and that for a year together; and that you do all this not out of love, or liking, or regard, but go through your regular task, like some young witch, without one natural feeling, to shew your cleverness, and get a few presents out of me, and go down into the kitchen to make a fine laugh of it? There is something monstrous in it, that I cannot believe of you. Sir, you have no right to harass my feelings in the manner you do. I have never made a jest of you to anyone, but always felt and expressed the greatest esteem for you. You have no ground for complaint in my conduct; and I cannot help what Betsey or others do. I have always been consistent from the first. I told you my regard could amount to no more than friendship. Nay, Sarah, it was more than half a year before I knew that there was an insurmountable obstacle in the way. You say your regard is merely friendship, and that you are sorry I have ever felt anything more for you. Yet the first time I ever asked you, you let me kiss you; the first time I ever saw you, as you went out of the room, you turned full round at the door, with that inimitable grace with which you do everything, and fixed your eyes full upon me, as much as to say, “Is he caught?”— that very week you sat upon my knee, twined your arms round me, caressed me with every mark of tenderness consistent with modesty; and I have not got much farther since. Now if you did all this with me, a perfect stranger to you, and without any particular liking to me, must I not conclude you do so as a matter of course with everyone?—Or, if you do not do so with others, it was because you took a liking to me for some reason or other. It was gratitude, Sir, for different obligations. If you mean by obligations the presents I made you, I had given you none the first day I came. You do not consider yourself obliged to everyone who asks you for a kiss? No, Sir. I should not have thought anything of it in anyone but you. But you seemed so reserved and modest, so soft, so timid, you spoke so low, you looked so innocent—I thought it impossible you could deceive me. Whatever favours you granted must proceed from pure regard. No betrothed virgin ever gave the object of her choice kisses, caresses more modest or more bewitching than those you have given me a thousand and a thousand times. Could I have thought I should ever live to believe them an inhuman mockery of one who had the sincerest regard for you? Do you think they will not now turn to rank poison in my veins, and kill me, soul and body? You say it is friendship— but if this is friendship, I’ll forswear love. Ah! Sarah it must be something more or less than friendship. If your caresses are sincere, they shew fondness—if they are not, I must be more than indifferent to you. Indeed you once let some 106

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words drop, as if I were out of the question in such matters, and you could trifle with me with impunity. Yet you complain at other times that no one ever took such liberties with you as I have done. I remember once in particular your saying, as you went out at the door in anger—“I had an attachment before, but that person never attempted anything of the kind.” Good God. How did I dwell on that word before, thinking it implied an attachment to me also; but you have since disclaimed any such meaning. You say you have never professed more than esteem. Yet once, when you were sitting in your old place, on my knee, embracing and fondly embraced, and I asked you if you could not love, you made answer, “I could easily say so, whether I did or not—YOU SHOULD JUDGE BY MY ACTIONS!” And another time, when you were in the same posture, and I reproached you with indifference, you replied in these words, “DO I SEEM INDIFFERENT?” Was I to blame after this to indulge my passion for the loveliest of her sex? Or what can I think? I am no prude, Sir. Yet you might be taken for one. So your mother said, “It was hard if you might not indulge in a little levity.” She has strange notions of levity. But levity, my dear, is quite out of character in you. Your ordinary walk is as if you were performing some religious ceremony: you come up to my table of a morning, when you merely bring in the tea-things, as if you were advancing to the altar. You move in minuet-time: you measure every step, as if you were afraid of offending in the smallest things. I never hear your approach on the stairs, but by a sort of hushed silence. When you enter the room, the Graces wait on you, and Love waves round your person in gentle undulations, breathing balm into the soul! By Heaven, you are an angel! You look like one at this instant! Do I not adore you—and have I merited this return? I have repeatedly answered that question. You sit and fancy things out of your own head, and then lay them to my charge. There is not a word of truth in your suspicions. Did I not overhear the conversation down-stairs last night, to which you were a party? Shall I repeat it? I had rather not hear it! Or what am I to think of this story of the footman? It is false, Sir, I never did anything of the sort. Nay, when I told your mother I wished she wouldn’t * * * * * * * (as I heard she did), she said “Oh, there’s nothing in that, for Sarah very often * * * * * * *,” and your doing so before company, is only a trifling addition to the sport. I’ll call my mother, Sir, and she shall contradict you. Then she’ll contradict herself. But did not you boast you were “very persevering in your resistance to gay young men,” and had been “several times obliged to ring the bell?” Did you always ring it? Or did you get into these dilemmas that made it necessary, merely by the demureness of your looks and ways? Or had nothing else passed? Or have you two characters, one that you palm off upon me, and another, your natural one, that you resume when you get out 107

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of the room, like an actress who throws aside her artificial part behind the scenes? Did you not, when I was courting you on the staircase the first night Mr. C— came, beg me to desist, for if the new lodger heard us, he’d take you for a light character? Was that all? Were you only afraid of being taken for a light character? Oh! Sarah I’ll stay and hear this no longer. Yes, one word more. Did you not love another? Yes, and ever shall most sincerely. Then, that is my only hope. If you could feel this sentiment for him, you cannot be what you seem to me of late. But there is another thing I had to say—be what you will, I love you to distraction! You are the only woman that ever made me think she loved me, and that feeling was so new to me, and so delicious, that it “will never from my heart.” Thou wert to me a little tender flower, blooming in the wilderness of my life; and though thou should’st turn out a weed, I’ll not fling thee from me, while I can help it. Wert thou all that I dread to think—wert thou a wretched wanderer in the street, covered with rags, disease, and infamy, I’d clasp thee to my bosom, and live and die with thee, my love. Kiss me, thou little sorceress! NEVER! Then go; but remember I cannot live without you—nor I will not.

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13 L E TTERS F ROM A VARI ETY OF PEOPLE TO THE A R C HBIS HOPRIC OF DUBLI N Dublin Diocesan Archive, Dublin (1849–1874)

The archives of the Dublin Diocesan of the Roman Catholic Church contain a range of letters written to members of the archbishopric, requesting pastoral care, charitable support, dispensations to marry, and fulfillment of similar needs. They provide an important source of evidence of the concerns, cares and anxieties of ordinary Irish Catholics, and of their local parish priests who often write on their behalf. Below are a selection of letters written between 1849 and 1874 and addressed to firstly the Archdeacon Rev John Hamilton (1800–1862), who administered the diocesan under Archbishop Daniel Murray (1823–1852), and latterly to Archbishop Paul Cullen (1803–1878). Both men were senior clergy with significant authority in the Catholic church and so individuals that could provide spiritual advice and pragmatic interventions and support. The letters are filed together in large boxes and very little is known about individual writers, apart from what can be gleaned from the letters, or if they were notable individuals for whom records survived elsewhere. In many ways, they offer random access points into complex dynamics, not least relationships between couples and their families, between the community and priests, or between the church as a patron and individuals as recipients of charity. Emotions in these stories can be explicit in the descriptions, but also arise from the situations which encouraged people to write. As sources typically produced during moments of conflict or crisis, they capture emotion as it arises in the everyday. … To Revd J Hamilton, Archdeacon of Dublin, from John Connoll 4 July 1849 Reverend Sir, I sincerely regret my limited means has hitherto prevented the solemnization of my intended marriage, with Julia Gallaher, whom I sincerly respect and am attached to.

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Her brother behind our backs, and without cause lodged some very vexations and frivolous and unfounded objections, to our union, which I am now given to understand he will withdraw, and I beg to assure you Sir, that from all the scandal and annoyance given me by her people for reasons quite unnecessary to explain to you or annoy you with, nothing on earth but a clearance of the Character of the young woman would induce me to marry her. I am getting nothing by, or with her, but herself and I am satisfied, altho’ others with plenty of means and ways I have given up, and who are her superiors in person and education, but none can excel her mild and kind and upright mind. I am quite willing to sacrifice any thing for her sake, and make a Declaration before a Magistrate of being in a position to marry her above all question. I shall likewise take the pledge, but would rather not, until I would try my strength of mind in that respect for a short time it is not a religious promise I consider it in no other view than a public restraint from a moral degradation. I hope I am a firm Roman Catholic as were all my forefathers – and yet they have accused me of holding other principles, solely because I am not a hidden hypocrite and am not so consistent as I should with regard to my Religious duties, but I hope and promise to amend. I will when I get the Cert at Welland Row call on you Sir with your kind permission. I am as I before observed very limited in means I never spaned a shilling altho’ I might be worth some hundred pounds. She will wait on you in the morning, but I shan’t trouble you till the day you may be so good as to mention to her for our union. I can’t have means till Sunday next. I hope sir you will excuse this trouble, and I remain with the greatest respect Your very humble servant John Carroll To Revd J. Hamilton, Archdeacon of Dublin, from Henry Gallagher 64 Mabbot Street 5 July 1849 Revd Sir, I take the liberty of addressing you again according to what my sisters telling me that you want to see me but I hope that you will forgive me for not calling on you to state my reasons for writing against the marriage of my sister to Mr Carroll, but I understand that my father and mother told her to do what she liked and then I am sure that I don’t want to put a stop to her getting married. But I heard from my mother that he was a married man and that was all that I know about him being married before as some young man from his owen town stated this to my Mother, so it is better hands now when it is your hands to do what is right I wash my hand out off it all together as I never liked the man from the first time that I had the

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pleasure of being in his company from his nasty manner Perhaps he may mind when he dose get married and when you give him an advice and when he takes the pledge as he is very much given to Drink and such habits as follows drinking. But I certainly will not receive him or her after so doing she is stopping with me at present but after that she may go where she likes from me I have the Honor to be Revd Sir Your most obedient humble servant Henry Gallagher To Revd J. Hamilton, Archdeacon of Dublin, from Michael Montgomery August 30th 1849 22 Upper Stafford St Dublin Reverend Sir, I am necessarily through an imperative obliged to avail myself of the very distressing opportunity of addressing you on my own part under the most painful and aggravated Circumstances upon which occasion I am sincerely sorry to call the attention of you Reverence to such a subject as the following purports to be which will be born testimony to, by me in any manner that may be required. I have been married by your Reverence in or about August 39 from which period to the present, my wife and self have lived most happy together, until unfortunately a Brother in law of mine who had been in Her Majesty’s Service for the last twenty years & who had been discharged a Pensioner in the Country of New Zealand some time in the month of September 48. Upon which occasion on arriving in Dublin last January he visited myself and wife, who had been there his only surviving friends, save another sister of his, who would not nor did not think it prudent to receive or entertain him as a settled or constant Lodger. When this unhappy brother in law came to live and reside with my wife and myself we were of opinion that we could live happily together by a having the unexpected friend and visitor reside with us but the fact unfortunately turns out otherwise as he has not only destroyed my Peace of Mind for the remainder of my Life, but most cheerful to relate to your Reverence, he has brought with him between my onc’d beloved wife, and himself as her brother the Curse of God, for this reason he has been the means, and the only means of brining my unhappy & unfortunate wife, to her utter ruin and destruction, in as much as he has in the first place caused for ever a separation between my beloved and myself and in the next place has taken her away from me, and on both being together now as man and wife, this improper intercourse has been going on and exercised since last March, And leave now your Reverence to consider the great necessity & propriety of having these partys separated and thereby put an end to such diabolical conduct

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as truly represented between the woman when is my wife, and brother in law who is her brother. I was forcibly compelled to abandon my home from the desperate and unlawful conduct of both partys, namely my wife and her brother, as such was beyond all reason, and wish to be directed by your Revd as to the best course as a grieved father and a husband that I can with propriety adopt in being instrumental in the separation of those parties who are cohabiting together, and living in every particular as man and wife. From the time of an marriage as before described my unhappy wife bore 6 children for me, five of whom are dead, and only one living which is a female child, and is away with the parties, which makes me as further cause also uneasy, she is about 18 months old. I have been thinking of you Revd could by any possibility enable me to get this little female Child into some Institution where I would contribute as God enabled me to pay for her support and thereby save the Innocent child from destruction, and from witnessing any conduct that may be carried on between those pair of Devills. I am kind Sir your obt servt. Michael Montgomery To Revd Cullen, Archbishop of Dublin, from Michael Waldron Bridget MacParlin of this Parish eloped with Martin MacPharlin, they are relatives in 2do & 3do consanguinitatis gradibus,1 the unfortunate girl is the child of honest and religious Parents. Michael Waldron PP2 of Coug Coug 21 Jan 1860 To Revd Cullen, Archbishop of Dublin, from E. Kennedy 16 Jany Monday eve My dear Lord, I am very sorry to find This Case of McFarlan’s again appearing: I had been in great hopes that the female his cousin had returned home. Both of them called on me on Thursday or Friday last in reference to their marriage; said all I could to induce them to abandon the idea of a marriage & encouraged the female to return home. She told me that she was very sorry for having acted as she did I wished that she was at home I recommended them to send her back by the train to Galway and then they left me. The female is (as she told me) from the Parish of Coug in Mayo: she mentioned indeed that she was very much afraid of her Father’s treatment of her in case she returned but I encouraged her to go to the Parish Priest & humble herself for the scandal she had given, and that she then concile with her Father. She mentioned to me that the Soldier had proposed to her to get married 112

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by some Minister. Seeing that they have persevered in their efforts to be married, and fearing lest they should only resolve themselves more. I do feel my Lord that if would be a great charity to extricate them from their wretched condition, and which I believe can be effected only by a careful marriage. I am sir your grace’s obedt servant E Kennedy To Revd Cullen, Archbishop of Dublin, from Michael Dungan Blanchardstown 18th April 1860 Dear Lord I beg your Grace’s kind consideration of the following case. Two persons, Patrick Carroll and Anne Hand, both of Castleknock, have made frequent applications to be Married. They were put off, on account of being related viz in tertio gradii consanguinitatis. About half a year ago, Carroll returned from India, where he was a solider and had received his application. The woman, whose Parents are dead, is a lone person, endeavouring to support herself by a small shop and is very well disposed in every respect. The long attachment that has existed between these parties, their general good conduct and prevention of danger of any future acts, may I respectfully submit, be reasons, why your Grace would kindly dispense with them in the Impediment and to dispense also in the Banns. On yesterday, Carroll removed to Rathmines to work at his trade, to be away from the place, until he would learn, whether matters could or not be arranged. I have the honour to remain My Dear Lord Your Grace’s very humble And obedient servant Michael Dungan To Revd Cullen, Archbishop of Dublin, from James Redmond Arklow June 6 1860 My Lord Archbishop, I have a sad matter to refer to your Grace. Martin Byrne & Mary Byrne the bearer of this note both of this Parish & in gradii secondo & secondo consanguinitatis have yielded to occasion & temptation of Satan & the unhappy creature tells me she is some months enceinte.3 They wish to hide their shame in marriage & they have implored of me to give them a line to your Grace from whose mercy they hope to obtain the favour they seek. If my Lord you decided on their marriage, may I ask you grace to have the great goodness to order them to be married by some priest in Town as I am most anxious 113

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to show myself as opposed as possible to such marriages in order to prevent the evil consequences of such as precedent as far as I am able. The parties are of the class of decent farmers. With sentiments of profoundest respect I have the honor to remain your Grace’s most obedt servt James Redmond To Revd Cullen, Archbishop of Dublin, from Patrick Galligan 147 Great Britain Street Dublin 12 September 1853 My Lord Archbishop I most humbly and respectfully implore your Grace to read the enclosed notes, and for pitty, humanity, and charity sake, to a man so awfully distressed, as it shows me to be, to give it your Lordship’s Commiserate Consideration. I took the liberty of already laying it before the Revd Mr Pope, but he sent me down word by the Hall Porter that “he knew of no vacancy at present.” My Lord, I need scarcely respectfully remark to your Grace, that my being a Catholic, operates as a barrier to my getting situations that otherwise would be open to me. Under these circumstances and in considerations of your exalted dignity, I humbly beseech your Grace not to put me off in despair with a negative answer which might be the means of causing me to rashly commit an act, which the humblest means of existing (even for a time) would prevent I am My Lord Archbishop with the Most Profound Respect Your Graces Most Humble & Obedient Servant Patk Galligan 147 Great Britain Street Dublin 12 September 1853 Rev Sir I shall not to enter into a harassing detail of misery, further than respectfully to state, that myself and my wife are in frightful destitution for want of employment. I am a Surveyor by profession, also a good clerk and Book-keeper; and a number of testimonials which I can submit for years perusal (if necessary) will show that I am a man of character and ability, but for want of influence am unable to procure the most humble employment. I came over from Manchester about a month since with a hope of being able to get on the General Valuation of Ireland under Mr Commissioner Griffith; but was disappointed. Since then I have been looking out for a Clerkship (and even light porterships) that have appeared in advertisements, but up to this have been unsuccessful: The Consequence is that every single article of ours that Could be pawned is 114

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pawned, and unless some relief be given us in some quarter, or that some charitable influence be exercised to procure me some humble employment, we shall most certainly be compelled to go into the Workhouse, to prevent our dropping in the streets. I hope therefore that as I am a stranger in Dublin, you will kindly take my case into your consideration, and that you will use your influence in some quarter, to get me any humble employment that will will [sic] enable me to support life till something better may offer. I am Reverend Sir Your very obedient servant Patk Galligan To Revd Cullen, Archbishop of Dublin, from P. Kearney January 15th 1863 My Dear Lord Archbishop I enclose Dr O’Hea’s exert in favour of Revd Mr O Donovan I am glad he has obtained for I have every hope that he will make a zealous and effectual missioner, at least if his future at all corresponds with the brief antecedent we had of him. I sent again for Henesey to communicate your wishes and my own to him, but instead of coming himself, he sent his wife a protestant to me. She was quite unmanageable very flippant and tart too, it puzzled me somewhat to restrain her, she spoke of the separation of Husband and Wife and other Matters as far as she was let, but was quite firm against removing her son from Claremont4 under any circumstances, the case is a hard and a difficult one to manage on many accounts, first the locality is deeply Orange5 and a quarrel with the Priest would gain for her subscription and patronage which she has not at present, Davey’s Widow made largely by her lawsuit in every way.6 Employment is scant too just now, many are still leaving for England, Henesy to be sure is a Catholic but intirely illiterate and from anything I can hear not a practical or a dependable one I couldn’t have worse material to work with, under these circumstances. I earnestly solicit your Grace’s advice and guidance in the case. Believe me My Dear Lord to remain with every feeling of veneration respect and esteem Your Grace’s Obdt Svt P. Kearney To Revd Cullen, Archbishop of Dublin, from Joseph Farrell St Margaret 13th July 1863 My Lord, It is with deep regret I have to inform you that the Rev Daniel Lyne C.C.7 of St Margaret’s came Home on last Saturday evening Drunk with two Boys on the 115

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car with him. This account in the day light of course the People saw him coming Home the road in this sad state. He is living in the House with Rev. Mr Black P.P. I suppose he also saw him and will be able to state the full particulars. I was horrified to see him say Mass on Sunday in the Chapel of St Margarets without going to confession after seeing him actually drunk on Saturday evening. I remain My Lord your humble servant Joseph Farrell P.S. I do not like my name should be mentioned, but to write an Anonymously letter in such a case would be wrong. It was on Saturday the 31st of January that this scandal happened. To Revd Cullen, Archbishop of Dublin, from John W. O’Regan Newburgh P.O. Box 146 Cuyahoga Co State of Ohio US America January 24th 1874 Most eminent & Rev P. Cardinal Cullen, Dublin Most Eminent Father, I write to your Lordship on the 21st Nov. 1873 and sent you the required information namely I was married in St Michaels City of Limerick (by Father O’Brien) in Nov or Dec 1858 to Mary Mannix or Flynn maiden name (I was her third husband), Tho. Hefferan & Mary Flynn or Finn were the witnesses. I was married again in Old Chelsea “Canada” near Ottaway City by Father McGoey or McGull on the 17th of July 1867 to Catherine Carroll, Witnesses father McGuire’s brother & house keeper. I am sending your Lordship this for fear you did not get my letter sent on 21st of Nov. last. Also I wish to state that I have written to the City of London and Woolwich England to know whether my first wife is dead or alive and could get no trace of her. Not that I would ever live with her no I could never do it from the way I was taken in I blame intemperance but thanks be to God that I am a temperate man now and expect with the blessing of God to die so I am temperate from all kinds of intoxicating drinks for the past three years. My sole dependence is on your Lordship with God’s assistance that you will relieve me from the trouble that I am inflicted with If I were free from that I would with God’s Grace think myself the happiest man in the world. But my hope in God & your Lordship’s Kindness for the distressed is that you will settle all and I hope and trust it will add a crown of Glory to the many that you have already gained is the prayer of your humble and sorrowful penitent. John W. O’Regan 116

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Newburgh P.O. Box 146 Cuyahaga Co State of Ohio United States America

Notes 1 Degrees of consanguinity – marriage was restricted between people too nearly related and the degrees indicated the distance from a shared ancestor. 2 Parish Priest. 3 Pregnant. 4 Claremont Institution for the Deaf and Dumb. 5 By Orange, they mean a particularly vehement type of Protestantism. 6 I have not been able to identify this case, but it seems to involve a widow suing the church and so heightening her reputation. 7 Catholic Curate.

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14 AM ERICAN M OURNI NG J EWELLERY, MID-NINETEENTH CENTURY

The rituals of mourning were an important part of nineteenth-century life, which for those who could afford it, was often accompanied by wearing particular clothes (notably in black), veiling the face for women, and carrying a mark of remembrance of the deceased. Jewellery was an effective way to do this, and items often contained hair that had been taken from a deceased beloved. The brooches below all contain hair, set into varying degrees of elaborate stone and metal work. Some like Figures 14.1–14.3 set the hair in expensive metals and stones, but others like Figure 14.4 are relatively simple, made from cheap metal and no additional ornamentation. As this suggest, these objects could be made for people of a range of different social classes. Sometimes these items also contain clues to the owner or the deceased in the form of an engraving. Figure 14.1 is unmarked, but 14.2 and 14.3 have ‘Alex. P. Kinnan/Died April 5, 1862 / Aged 32 yrs’ on their backs. These were both made for the same person, and presumably were gifted out to different members of the family as a token of remembrance. Figure 14.4 contains the phrase ‘My dear Mother/Juliana C. Nichols/Obit 21st December 1847 / Aet. 47 Yrs. 5 Mos. 22 Dys’, suggestive that this was worn by Nichols’ child. These examples are all from the US, but can be found in a range of European countries, highlighting the popularity of this practice. As sources for the history of emotions, they provide insight into the grieving rituals of a broad middle class and the way that a token of the body – hair – came to embody and represent an absent loved one. They are useful evidences of how material culture can be deployed as part of emotional practices.

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Figure 14.1 Mourning jewelry, gold, glass, hair, mid-19th century, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Miriam W. Coletti, 1993. Note: for more details see: www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/94547.

Figure 14.2 Mourning pin, gold, pearls, jet, 1862, New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Mrs. Alexander O. Burnham, 1960. Note: for more details see: www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/5257.

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Figure 14.3 Mourning pin, gold, pearls, jet, 1862, New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Mrs. Alexander O. Burnham, 1960. Note: for more details see: www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/5258.

Figure 14.4 Brooch, hair, metal, 1847, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Miss Margaret Brearley, 1943. Note: for more details see: www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/124242.

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15 FREDRIKA BRE M ER (1801–1865), THE HOM ES OF THE N E W WORL D; IMPRES S I ONS OF AMERIC A Trans. Mary Howitt, 2 vols (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1857), vol. 2, pp. 440–450

Frederika Bremer was a Swedish writer and feminist, who most famously wrote realist novels, not least Hertha (1856) that inspired a campaign that led to women receiving the vote. The Homes of the New World was based on a series of letters that she wrote to her sister Agatha and occasionally others, while travelling in the Americas and Caribbean. On her return, they were edited into two volumes, and translated into English by the poet, Mary Howitt (1799–1888). The excerpt below is a letter directed to Caroline Amalie, Queen Dowager of Denmark (1796–1881), who was known for her charitable works, particularly supporting the welfare of poor children and women. She set a model for charitable action amongst elite women and encouraged them to take an active role in the community. In this letter, Bremer is seeking to encourage the queen to take an interest in the condition of African Americans living under slavery, not least through educating and caring for their children. Her case for this is made through a detailed narrative description of her travels in Cuba and the American south, where she compares the condition of free and enslaved communities. Written by a white middle-class woman, her observations reflect ingrained ideas about white superiority and places women like herself in the role of raising the living conditions and enabling the freedom of black communities. However, as a text for historians of emotions, the account provides insight into how emotions were located as a product of environmental conditions, which included education and the treatment of human beings by each other. Her rich description also enables insight into how the different places she visits impact on the sensate body and produce affective atmospheres. Read against the grain, the historian might also begin to access some of the emotional experiences of the people Bremer observes and describes. …

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Letter XXXVII Letter to her Majesty, Carolina Amelia, Queen Dowager of Denmark. Cuba, West Indies, April These laws of emancipation have caused the negro population of Cuba to amount to nearly five hundred thousand souls; about one half of the whole population of the island, and near one third free negroes. And the free negro of Cuba is the happiest of all created beings. He is protected by the laws of the country from that violence and those hostile attacks which continually threaten him in his own country from hostile tribes. He can for a small impost become the possessor of a couple of acres of land, on which he builds his hut of palm bark and palm leaves. Around this he plants the trees and edible roots of his native land, and the golden maize. The earth, produces, at small expense of labor, all that he requires. He needs not to labor, and he can enjoy much, and rest the while. The sun gives him fire, and frees him from the necessity of clothing for the greater part of his body. The cocoa-palm gives him milk; the plantain-tree bread; the king-palm feeds his swine and his poultry; the field gives him sugar-cane, and the wild trees of the forest drop for him their manifold fruits. The African drum with its cheerful life, the African dances and songs, are free to him here. He lives here a real life of Canaan, and will not on any account emigrate to Africa. He is happy, although his happiness is not of an elevated character. I confess to your majesty that it has been astonishing to me, and distressing at the same time, to see the United States stand so far behind Spain in justice and sense of freedom in their legislation for the slave population, and it is difficult for me to explain how the noble-mindedness and national pride of a people can bear and allow themselves to be outdone in their laws regarding freedom by a nation which they consider far below themselves in humanity, and which is so, too, in many respects. The Spaniards of Cuba are not altogether wrong when they, on this subject, look down on the Americans, and call them, as I myself heard, “barbarians!” There are in Cuba, probably, at this time, more happy black than white people. The slave-owner is not happy. For him wave no palm-trees; the delicious winds do not caress him; for him the mild, bright heavens shine not; between him and all the glory of nature stands the bohea and the sugar-mill, with their negro slaves, who dread him, and of whom he stands in dread. The mild heaven of Cuba gives him no peace; he sees the sword of Damocles hanging over his head, and the future is dark to him. Therefore his end and aim is merely to make as much money as he can, and then to—leave Cuba forever. When I think of this beautiful island, of its glorious scenery, its rich resources, I cannot avoid my imagination transforming it to what it ought to be, to what it seems intended to be by the mind of the Creator; yes, and not merely it, but all those beautiful islands which God has scattered with an affluent hand in the Southern sea, like jewels upon its billowy mantle.

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Among these may be named, as representatives of all, three in particular, preeminent in beauty, grandeur, and wealth — Cuba, St. Domingo, and Jamaica. But I will now speak of Cuba, that beautiful Queen of the Antilles. I behold her, then, freed from her fetters, and free from slaves; behold her crowned by her palms and her lofty mountain peaks, born again from the ocean waves, caressed by them and by immortal zephyrs, a new Eden, a home of perpetual spring, a golden chalice of health, to which all the sons and daughters of earth might make pilgrimages, and take draughts of new life, and receive new revelations of the Creator’s wealth, and a foretaste of the abodes of the blessed in the great Father’s house. There might they wander in banana and orange groves, enjoying the delicious fruits of Paradise, or sit in rocking-chairs on the hills where the palm-trees wave, and the breezes from the sea, full of renovating life, dance around them—sit thus and breathe, and behold, and think how beautiful is existence! The sun descends in mild glory; brilliant cuculios1 dart like stars through space, and cover the tree-tops with glittering jewels; the air is filled with the music of the Cuban contra-dances and the Spanish seguidillas; the cheerful measure of the African drums is heard in the background, and the Southern Cross rises slowly above the horizon in the growing darkness of night. It is night, but no one need dread the night here; it is not cold; it has no dew. The night of Paradise could not be more innocuous than that of Cuba. The weak and the suffering in body should come here and inhale invigorating life. The aged should come, to be reminded of an eternal youth; the dejected and the sorrowing, to gain new hope. The philosopher should come hither, that his glance might be extended over the infinite realm of man and his Creator; the poet and the artist, to study here new forms of beauty, new groupings of the noble and the lovely in coloring and in form. The statesman should come, to strengthen his faith in the ideal of life and the possibility of its realization. And this new realm of beauty and goodness on earth should be governed by a queen, a ruler of the heart as well as of the state, to whom all hearts and all people, black, and white, and red, and olive-complexioned, and yellow, should pay voluntary homage —a queen good and beautiful as your majesty! Charleston, South Carolina, May 1st. I conclude this letter to your majesty, which I commenced beneath the southern heavens, in the United States of North America. I no longer behold the infinitely mild skies of the South, and its waving palms, but I see before me a large and increasing popular life—a guadarajah2 of states growing aloft like palms. In the southern portion of North America nature is a great poet, in the northern a great human being. It is still in this southern portion that I am now writing, and in one of the slave states of North America. It is the month of May, and the luxuriant, but feeble, and almost diseased beauty of South Carolina is now in its fullest bloom. They are, however, glorious, these live-oaks, with their long, depending trails of moss, which convert the forest into

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a natural Gothic temple—these magnolia-trees, with their large, snow-white blossoms, and odors which fill the warm, soft air. The songs of the negro slaves from the river, as they row home after having sold their wares in the city, reach me at this moment in the beautiful, homelike home from which I have now the happiness of writing to your majesty, and where I feel myself, as it were, nearer good Denmark, because its mistress, Mrs. William Howland, is a Dane, of the Danish line of Monefeldt, and well worthy to be introduced to the Queen of Denmark, both from the love which she bears to her mother-country, and for the beautiful, maternal feeling toward both blacks and whites which distinguish this noble Danish woman. I have already spoken of slavery as the misfortune of the Southern States. I should at this moment be ready to call it their good fortune, that is to say, if at this moment they would take hold upon the misfortune, the curse, and convert it into a blessing. And there is no doubt but that they might do so. Charcoal, it is said, is the mother of the diamond. The states of the South possess in slavery the charcoal of a jewel; what do I say? of a diadem of jewels worthy of a new Queen of the South, more beautiful than she who came to Solomon! Since I have seen in Cuba the negroes in their savage, original state—seen their dances, heard their songs, and am able to compare them with what they are at the best in the United States, there remains no longer a doubt in my mind as to the beneficial influence of Anglo-American culture on the negro, or of the great mission which America is called upon to accomplish with regard to the African race, precisely through the people who, having enslaved, they ought now, in a two-fold sense, to emancipate. The sour crab is not more unlike our noble, bright, Astrachan apple, than is the song of the wild African to the song of the Christian negro in the United States, whether it be hymns that he sings or gay negro songs that he has himself composed. And this comparison holds good through his whole being and world. There is a vast, vast difference between the screeching improvisation of the negroes in Cuba, and the inspired and inspiring preaching of the Savior, and his affluence of light and joy, which I have heard extemporized in South Carolina, Georgia, Maryland, and Louisiana. And low and sensual is that lawless life, and intoxication of the senses in those wild negro-dances, and those noisy festivities to the beat of the drum, compared with that life, and that spiritual intoxication in song and prayer, and religious joy, which is seen and heard at the religious festivals of the negro people here. Hard, and wild, and empty is the expression in the glances of the former, compared with that which I have seen beaming in those of the latter when the light-life of Christianity was preached to them with clearness and naïveté. And this is going on through wider and still wider circles, especially in the slave states of North America, in the south, from Virginia to South Carolina and Georgia; and this last-mentioned state, in particular, seemed to me to be animated by a noble, youthfully vigorous spirit of freedom. And it is becoming more and more general for the negroes themselves to stand forth as religious leaders of their people, and churches are erected for them. In the southwestern slave states, on the contrary, the religious life is but very little awakened, and the condition of 124

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the negroes on the plantations is, most frequently, alike gloomy with regard to the life both of soul and body. There is, however, no doubt but that light is breaking through; noble-minded Christians are opening a path for its rays, and the Gospel will soon be preached to the slaves, even among the swampy wildernesses of the Mississippi, and on the banks of the distant Red River, in Texas and Arkansas. … If the law of the Southern States, like that of the Spaniard, allowed the slaves, male or female, to purchase their own and their childrens’ freedom by labor; if it would open to them a prospect of liberating themselves and their children for a reasonable and legally-fixed sum, and would appoint judges to watch over the rights of the black population; if it would, in addition to this, extend the system of popular education to the children of the blacks—even if they were in separate schools, and would fearlessly concede other consecutive means of moral and intellectual development, we might then confidently predict for the Southern States of America a great future. It would have accomplished a work which would entitle it to the gratitude of two hemispheres, and demand the admiration of the whole world—a work which evidently seems to lie in the plan of God’s schemes, and which already the best and noblest citizens of the slave states speak of as American concession. ... In the proposition and extension of this colony, the Northern and the Southern States have shown themselves to be a noble Union, with one heart and one soul. In this they extend their hands to each other for reconciliation in the great quarrel between them on the subject of slavery. I must, however, confess that this work seems to me merely as a part of that which the Southern States ought to accomplish. These states would, without the negro population, lose much of their most picturesque, most peculiar life; besides which, they could not dispense with negro labor. It is declared that rice, cotton, and sugar could not be cultivated without the negro, who is habituated to the heat of the sun, and to whom it is a delight. The white man dies of the heat and the miasmas which are produced by the soil; the black man, on the contrary, flourishes there, increases and multiplies, or merely suffers slightly from climatic fevers. When the circumstances are favorable between the white and the black, it is evident that there exists no inimical relationship between them; they love each other, and are attracted to each other; equally unlike, their respective deficiencies perfect nature. The good-tempered, cheerful negro loves the grave, sensible white man, and allows himself to be guided by him, and he, in his turn, loves the good-hearted black man, and allows himself to be tended by him. I say nothing but what noble and thinking men in the slave states consider to be possible when I state to your majesty the conviction that the noblest, because the most difficult, future endeavor of the slave states ought to be the converting of one portion of its slave population into free laborers. I say one portion, because 125

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it is clear that merely one portion thereof would be capable of remaining, as freemen, under American dominion. The portion of the slave population which longs to go to Africa should go there; and that portion which is attached to the soil and the people of America, and which is capable of acquiring its cultivation and its active, laborious spirit, should remain in its Southern States, where it has been brought up, to which it belongs, by nature, habitude, and affections, and where the coloring and the romantic life of these lands, beloved by the sun, would be greatly increased by their life of labor on the plantations and in the cities, by their religious festivities, and their songs and dances. From what I have seen of the good understanding between the white man and the negro, I believe that many of the best heads and the ablest hands among the negro people would prefer remaining in America to emigrating from it. The traveler may then visit these states with an admiration free from any depressing reservation, for they will then advance in moral beauty and political power, and the American Union will then, without an exception, become what it has already declared itself willing to become, a great asylum, diffusing the blessings of liberty to all the nations of the earth by both precept and example. It is evident that such an emancipation cannot take place at once, nay, perhaps not for several tens of years. It may be delayed for a century, if we can only see that it is approaching, if we can only see the commencement of its dawn, so that we may know that it will advance into the perfect day. And it cannot be otherwise; the streaks of dawn are already, even at this moment, piercing the nocturnal shadows which the late political contests between the free states and the slave states called forth over the Union. I have already mentioned to your majesty the labors of the Colonization Society, both in the Northern and the Southern States, as advancing the work of enfranchisement in Africa. I place among the movements, the aim of which is an emancipation of the black slave population of America, the scheme of a law, by that noble, patriotic statesman, Henry Clay, which should declare free all the children of the negro slave born after a certain year—1856, I believe—a scheme which, however, did not meet with the support of the less noble statesmen; and the endeavors of various noble private individuals for the education and liberation of their slaves. There is, however, one among these efforts to which I desire pre-eminently to direct your majesty’s eye, both because it proceeds from the womanly and maternal element in the community, and because it is the grain of mustard-seed, which, although a small seed, may yet grow into a large tree and spread its shadow far around. I know in the slave states some young girls, the daughters and sisters of planters, who are not ashamed of keeping schools themselves for the children of the slaves on the plantation, and of teaching them to pray, to think, and work. They speak highly of the powers of mind, and the willingness to learn, of the negro children, especially when knowledge is presented to them in a living and pleasing form by means of narratives and pictures. 126

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If the young daughters of the Southern States would generally imitate this good example, they would do more than any legislation to prepare the way for a happy emancipation; for emancipation might take place without any detriment either to the black or the white population, if the slave had been educated from his youth upward by love, and habituated to the fear of God, to order, and labor; and I participate fully in the views of an elderly man of the South, that the possibility of an approaching emancipation from slavery is much more in the hands of the women than of the men at the present moment. ... It is a universal custom on the plantations of the South that while the slaves, men and women, are out at labor the children should all be collected at one place, under the care of one or two old women. I have sometimes seen as many as sixty or seventy, or even more together, and their guardians were a couple of old negro witches, who with a rod of reeds kept rule over these poor little black lambs, who with an unmistakable expression of fear and horror shrunk back in crowds whenever the threatening witches came forth, flourishing their rods. On smaller plantations, where the number of children is smaller, and the female guardians gentle, the scene, of course, is not so repulsive; nevertheless, it always reminded me of a flock of sheep or swine, which were fed merely to make them ready for eating. And yet these were human beings, capable of the noblest human development as regards sentiment and virtue—human beings with immortal souls! ... Would it be too much to demand from the wives, daughters, and sisters of the planters, too much to demand from Christian women, that they should once or twice in the week go down to this neglected crowd of children, and talk to them of their Father in heaven, and teach them to pray to “Our Father in heaven?”

Notes 1 Fireflys. 2 Avenue of palm trees.

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16 HENRY J AM ES (1 8 4 3 – 1 9 1 6 ) , WHAT MAISIE KNEW (Chicago: Herbert S. Stone, 1897), pp. 9–15, 35–43

Henry James was a renowned American-English novelist, nominated on several occasions for the Nobel Prize for Literature, and the brother of William James (1842–1910), one of the most influential theorists on the nature of ‘emotion’ in contemporary psychology (see source 38). The excerpt below is taken from his novel What Maisie Knew. The story explores the experience of the young daughter of two narcissistic divorced parents, Beale and Ida Farange, who use the child as a pawn in their own emotional dramas. She lives six months in each household and is cared for by a series of nannies, one of whom the beautiful Miss Overmore marries her father. The book is written from the perspective of Maisie, as she tries to negotiate these movements between households and to understand and ultimately learn from the bewildering behaviours of the adults around her. The text draws closely on contemporary philosophy and psychology, not least the work of William James, where Maisie is produced as a sensate creature learning and shaped by her environment, becoming a nuanced social actor as she learns to attach meaning to her observations of the world. The book offers both a moral commentary on the impact of divorce and parental selfishness on the upbringing of children, and an account of how children learn and mature through their emotional and sensate educations. … THE child was provided for; but the new arrangement was inevitably confounding to a young intelligence, intensely aware that something had happened which must matter a good deal and looking anxiously for the great effects of so great a cause. It was to be the fate of this patient little girl to see much more than, at first, she understood, but also, even at first, to understand much more than any little girl, however patient, had perhaps ever understood before. Only a drummer-boy in a ballad or a story could have been so in the thick of the fight. She was taken into the confidence of passions on which she fixed just the stare she might have had for images bounding across the wall in the slide of a magic-lantern. Her little world was phantasmagoric—strange shadows dancing on a sheet. It was as if the whole performance had been given for her—a mite of a half-scared infant in a 128

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great dim theatre. She was in short introduced to life with a liberality in which the selfishness of others found its account, and there was nothing to avert the sacrifice but the modesty of her youth. Her first term was with her father, who spared her only in not letting her have the wild letters addressed to her by her mother. He confined himself to holding them up at her and shaking them, while he showed his teeth, and then amusing her by the way he chucked them, across the room, bang into the fire. Even at that moment, however, she had a scared anticipation of fatigue, a guilty sense of not rising to the occasion, feeling the charm of the violence with which the stiff unopened envelopes, whose big monograms—Ida bristled with monograms—she would have liked to see, were made to whiz, like dangerous missiles, through the air. The greatest effect of the great cause was her own greater importance, chiefly revealed to her in the larger freedom with which she was handled, pulled hither and thither and kissed, and the proportionately greater niceness she was obliged to show. Her features had somehow become prominent; they were so perpetually nipped by the gentlemen who came to see her father and the smoke of whose cigarettes went into her face. Some of these gentlemen made her strike matches and light their cigarettes; others, holding her on knees violently jolted, pinched the calves of her legs until she shrieked—her shriek was much admired—and reproached them with being toothpicks. The word stuck in her mind and contributed to her feeling from this time that she was deficient in something that would meet the general desire. She found out what it was: that a congenital tendency to the production of a substance to which Moddle, her nurse, gave a short, ugly name, a name painfully associated with the part of the joint, at dinner, that she didn’t like. She had left behind her the time when she had no desires to meet, none at least save Moddle’s, who, in Kensington Gardens, was always on the bench when she came back to see if she had been playing too far. Moddle’ s desire was merely that she shouldn’t do that; and she met it so easily that the only spots in this long brightness were the moments of her wondering what would become of her if, on her coming back, there should be no Moddle on the bench. They still went to the Gardens, but there was a difference even there. She was impelled perpetually to look at the legs of other children and ask her nurse if they were toothpicks. Moddle was terribly truthful—she always said: “Oh, my dear, you’ll not find such another pair as your own!” It seemed to have to do with something else that Moddle often said: “You feel the strain that’s where it is; and you’ll feel it still worse, you know.” Thus, from the first, Maisie not only felt it, but knew that she felt it. A part of it was the consequence of her father’s telling her that he felt it too, and telling Moddle, in her presence, that she must make a point of driving that home. She was familiar, at the age of six, with the fact that everything had been changed on her account, everything ordered to enable him to give himself up to her. She was to remember always the words in which Moddle impressed upon her that he did so give himself: “ Your papa wishes you never to forget, you know, that he has been dreadfully put about.” If the skin on Moddle’s face had, to Maisie, the air of being unduly, almost painfully stretched, it never presented that appearance 129

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so much as when she uttered, as she often had occasion to utter, such words. The child wondered if they didn’t make it hurt more than usual; but it was only after some time that she was able to attach to the picture of her father’s sufferings, and more particularly to her nurse’s manner about them, the meaning for which these things had waited. By the time she had grown sharper, as the gentlemen who criticised her calves used to say, she found in her mind a collection of images and echoes to which meanings were attachable images and echoes kept for her in the childish dusk, the dim closet, the high drawers, like games she was not yet big enough to play. The great strain meanwhile was that of carrying, by the right end, the things her father said about her mother—things mostly, indeed, that Moddle, on a glimpse of them, as if they had been complicated toys or difficult books, took out of her hands and put away in the closet. It was a wonderful assortment of objects of this kind that she discovered there later, all tumbled up too with the things, shuffled into the same receptacle, that her mother had said about her father. She had the knowledge that on a certain occasion which every day brought nearer, her mother would be at the door to take her away; and this would have darkened all the days if the ingenious Moddle had not written on a paper, in very big, easy words, ever so many pleasures that she would enjoy at the other house. These promises ranged from “a mother’s fond love” to “a nice poached egg to your tea;” and took by the way the prospect of sitting up ever so late to see the lady in question dressed in silks and velvets and diamonds and pearls to go out. So that it was a real support to Maisie, at the supreme hour, to feel that, by Moddle’s direction, the paper was thrust away in her pocket and there clenched in her fist. The supreme hour was to furnish her with a vivid reminiscence, that of a strange outbreak, in the drawing-room, on the part of Moddle, who, in reply to something her father had just said, cried aloud: “You ought to be perfectly ashamed of yourself; you ought to blush, sir, for the way you go on!” The carriage, with her mother in it, was at the door. A gentleman who was there, who was always there, laughed out very loud. Her father, who had her in his arms, said to Moddle: “My dear woman, I’ll settle you presently!” after which he repeated, showing his teeth more than ever at Maisie while he hugged her, the words for which her nurse had taken him up. Maisie was not at the moment so fully conscious of them as of the wonder of Moddle’s sudden disrespect and crimson face; but she was able to produce them, in the course of five minutes, when, in the carriage, her mother, all kisses, ribbons, eyes, arms, strange sounds and sweet smells, said to her: “And did your beastly papa, my precious angel, send any message to your own loving mamma?” Then it was that she found the words spoken by her beastly papa to be, after all, in her little bewildered ears, from which, at her mother’s appeal, they passed, in her clear, shrill voice, straight to her little innocent lips. “He said I was to tell you from him,” she faithfully reported, “that you’re a nasty horrid pig!” … THE second parting from Miss Overmore had been bad enough, but this first parting from Mrs. Wix was much worse. The child had lately been to the dentist’s; 130

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she had a term of comparison for the screwed-up intensity of the scene. It was dreadfully silent, as it had been when her tooth was taken out. Mrs. Wix had on that occasion grabbed her hand, and they had clung to each other with the frenzy of their determination not to scream. Maisie, at the dentist’s, had been heroically still, but just when she felt most anguish had become aware, on the part of her companion, of an audible shriek, a spasm of stifled sympathy. This was reproduced by the only sound that broke their supreme embrace when, a month later, the “arrangement,” as her periodical up-rootings were called, played the part of the horrible forceps. Embedded in Mrs. Wix’s clasp as her tooth had been sunk in her gum, the operation of extracting her would really have been a case for chloroform. It was a hug that fortunately left nothing to say, for the poor woman’s want of words, at such an hour, seemed to fall in with her want of everything. Maisie’s alternate parent, in the outermost vestibule—he liked the impertinence of crossing as much as that of his late wife’s threshold—stood over them with his open watch and his still more open grin, while from the only corner of an eye on which something of Mrs. Wix’s didn’t impinge the child saw at the door a brougham in which Miss Overmore also waited. She remembered the difference when, six months before, she had been torn from the breast of that more spirited protectress. Miss Overmore, then also in the vestibule, but of course in the other one, had been thoroughly audible and voluble. Her protest had rung out bravely, and she had declared that something—her pupil didn’t know exactly what—was a regular wicked shame. That had at the time dimly recalled to Maisie the far-away moment of Moddle’s great outbreak—there seemed always to be “shame” connected in one way or another with her migrations. At present, while Mrs. Wix’s arms tightened and the smell of her hair was strong, she further remembered how, in pacifying Miss Overmore, papa had made use of the words, “you dear old duck”—an expression which, by its oddity, had stuck fast in her young mind, having moreover a place well prepared for it there by what she knew of the governess whom she now always mentally characterized as the pretty one. She wondered whether this affection would be as great as before; that would at all events be the case with the prettiness. Maisie could see it in the face which showed brightly at the window of the brougham. The brougham was a token of harmony, of the fine conditions papa this time would offer. He had usually come for her in a hansom with a four-wheeler behind for the boxes. The four-wheeler with the boxes on it was actually there; but mamma was the only lady with whom she had ever been in a conveyance of the kind always, of old, spoken of by Moddle as a private carriage. Papa’s carriage was, now that he had one, still more private somehow than mamma’s; and when at last she found herself quite on top, as she felt, of its inmates and gloriously rolling away she put to Miss Overmore, after another immense and more talkative squeeze, a question of which the motive was a desire for information as to the continuity of a certain sentiment. “Did papa like you just the same while I was gone?” she inquired, full of the sense of how markedly his favor had been established in her presence. She had bethought herself that this favor might, like her presence, and as if depending on it, be only intermittent and for the season. Papa, on whose 131

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knee she sat, burst into one of those loud laughs of his that, however prepared she was, seemed always, like some trick in a frightening game, to leap forth to make her jump; then, before Miss Overmore could speak, he replied: “Why, you little donkey, when you’re away what have I left to do but just to love her?” Miss Overmore hereupon immediately took her from him, and they had, over her, an hilarious little scrimmage of which Maisie caught the surprised observation in the white stare of an old lady who passed in a victoria. Then her beautiful friend remarked to her very gravely: “I shall make him understand that if he ever again says anything as horrid as that to you I shall carry you straight off and we’ll go and live somewhere together and be good quiet little girls.” The child couldn’t quite make out why her father’s speech had been horrid, since it only expressed that appreciation which their companion herself, of old, described as “immense.” To enter more into the truth of the matter she appealed to him again directly, asked if in all these months Miss Overmore hadn’t been with him just as she had been before and just as she would be now. “Of course she has, old girl, where else could the poor dear be?” cried Beale Farange, to the still greater scandal of their companion, who protested that unless he straightway “took back” his nasty, wicked fib, it would be, this time, not only him she would leave, but his child, too, and his house and his tiresome troubles—all the impossible things he had succeeded in putting on her. Beale, under this frolic menace, took nothing back at all. He was indeed apparently on the point of repeating his assertion, but Miss Overmore instructed her little charge that she was not to listen to his bad jokes. She was to understand that a lady couldn’t stay with a gentleman that way without some awfully proper reason. Maisie looked from one of her companions to the other; this was the freshest, merriest start she had yet enjoyed, but she had a shy fear of not exactly believing them. “Well, what reason is proper?” she thoughtfully demanded. “Oh, a long-legged stick of a tomboy; there’s none so good as that!” Her father enjoyed both her drollery and his own, and tried again to get possession of her an effort resisted by the third person and leading again to something of a public scuffle. Miss Overmore declared to the child that she had been all the while with good friends, on which Beale Farange went on: “She means good friends of mine, you know tremendous friends of mine. There has been no end of them about that I will say for her!” The child felt bewildered and was afterwards for some time conscious of a vagueness, just slightly embarrassing, as to the subject of so much amusement and as to where her governess had really been. She didn’t feel at all as if she had been seriously told, and no such feeling was supplied by anything that occurred later. Her embarrassment, of a precocious, instinctive order, attached itself to the idea that this was another of the matters that it was not for her, as her mother used to say, to go into. Therefore, under her father’s roof, during the time that followed, she made no attempt to clear up her ambiguity by a sociable interrogation of housemaids; and it was an odd truth that the ambiguity itself took nothing from the fresh pleasure promised her by renewed contact with Miss Overmore. The confidence looked for by that young lady was of the fine sort that explanation cannot improve, and she herself, at any rate, was a person superior to 132

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all confusion. For Maisie, moreover, concealment had never necessarily seemed deception, and she had grown up among things as to which her former knowledge was that she was not to ask about them. It was far from new to her that the questions of the small are the peculiar diversion of the great. Except the affairs of her doll Lisette, there had scarcely ever been anything at her mother’s that was explicable with a grave face. Nothing was so easy to her as to send the ladies who gathered there off into shrieks, and she might have practised upon them largely if she had been of a more calculating turn. Everything had something behind it. Life was like a long, long corridor with rows of closed doors. She had learned that at these doors it was wise not to knock—that seemed to produce, from within, such sounds of derision. Little by little, however, she understood more, for it befell that she was enlightened by Lisette’s questions, which reproduced the effect of her own upon those for whom she sat in the very darkness of Lisette. Was she not herself convulsed by such innocence? In the presence of it she often imitated the shrieking ladies. There were at any rate things she really couldn’t tell even a French doll. She could only pass on her lessons and study to produce on Lisette the impression of having mysteries in her life, wondering the while whether she succeeded in the air of shading off, like her mother, into the unknowable. When the reign of Miss Overmore followed that of Mrs. Wix she took a fresh cue, emulating her governess and bridging over the interval with the simple expectation of trust. Yes, there were matters one couldn’t go into with a pupil. There were, for instance, days when, after prolonged absence, Lisette, while she took off her things, tried hard to discover where she had been. Well, she discovered a little, but she never discovered all. There was an occasion when, on her being particularly indiscreet, Maisie replied to her—and precisely about the motive of a disappearance—as she, Maisie, had once been replied to by Mrs. Farange, “Find out for yourself!” She mimicked her mother’s sharpness, but she was rather ashamed afterwards, though as to whether of the sharpness or of the mimicry was not quite clear.

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17 E GON SCHIELE (1 8 9 0 – 1 9 1 8 ) , PAINTINGS OF FAM I LY LI FE

Egon Schiele was an Austrian figurative painter, whose work was marked by explorations of sexuality and personal and familial identity. He died in his late twenties, three days after his pregnant wife, during the Spanish flu pandemic of 1918. Portrayals of family were a key theme within his work, with several paintings that couple parents and young children and especially mother and child. Hereditary transmission was a significant theme in his work, influential during a period where an interest in the health of the nation was driven by eugenic concerns. Schiele’s father died from syphilis, a condition that was often transmitted to children in the womb and which could have long-term health repercussions, and insanity shaped his family life, an illness that the period often considered heritable. Like his other works, his paintings of family life are often raw and challenging, objects that produce emotions in their viewer both then and now. His subjects often appear vulnerable in their humanity, an impact achieved through textured skin tones, dark outlines that capture muscular limbs, and imperfect (but beautiful) bodies. His portraits of mother and children draw on a long tradition of representations of Mary and the Christ child in their composition, but rather than offering saint-like perfection, the mother is ghostlike and absent, or as in Figure 17.5, both maternal and erotic. The mother and child dynamic is re-read through contemporary psycho-analytic theory, raising questions of sexual transference and child development as well as the critical role of mothers, who must be severed, to produce the individual adult child. Figure 17.4 Dead Mother highlights the essential function of the mother in birthing the child, even from beyond the grave. She wraps her newborn like a womb, the latter seemingly content but whose upraised hand figures a boundary within which the child is enclosed but may later wish to escape. In contrast, Figure 17.3, The Family, featuring Schiele, his wife Edith Harms, and his nephew Toni (their imagined unborn child), offers a more robust image, where Schiele, taking on his patriarchal placement within the family, frames his wife and their offspring. The positioning of the figures in a line highlights contemporary ideas of social order, reproductive lineage (the child literally between its mother’s legs), as well as paternal affection, with Schiele’s hand covering his heart. These are images that speak to the emotional dynamics

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of family life as imagined by Schiele and his contemporaries, but which are also moving pieces of art, designed to produce emotions in their audiences. …

Figure 17.1 Egon Schiele (1890–1918), Mother with Two Children II (Mutter mit zwei Kindern II), Oil on canvas, 1915, Leopold Museum. Note: for more details see: http://egonschieleonline.org/works/paintings/work/p287.

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Figure 17.2 Egon Schiele (1890–1918), Mother with Two Children III (Mutter mit zwei Kindern III), Oil on canvas, 1917, Österreichische Galerie Belvedere. Note: for more details see: http://egonschieleonline.org/works/paintings/work/p303.

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Figure 17.3 Egon Schiele (1890–1918), The Family (Squatting Couple) (Die Familie (Kauerndes Menschenpaar)), Oil on canvas, 1918, Österreichische Galerie Belvedere. Note: more details see: http://egonschieleonline.org/works/paintings/work/p326.

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Figure 17.4 Egon Schiele (1890–1918), Dead Mother I (Tote Mutter I), Oil and pencil on wood, 1910, Leopold Museum. Note: for more details see: http://egonschieleonline.org/works/paintings/work/p177.

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Figure 17.5 Egon Schiele (1890–1918), Young Mother (Junge mutter), Oil on canvas, 1914, Private collection, Vienna. Note: more details see: http://egonschieleonline.org/works/paintings/work/p273.

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Part 3 RELIGION

Part 3 Religion

Emotion had long been significant to the practice of religion and that continued throughout the nineteenth century, when the capacity to feel moral emotions, and to distance oneself from selfish or ungodly feeling, remained evidence of alignment with God. As the sources in this chapter suggest, there were a number of mechanisms that individuals could use to encourage or reinforce religious feeling, whether that was personal prayer and devotional reading, religious worship, not least with music, small acts of love and kindness towards others, or significant rituals and festivals. Religious feeling continued to shape everyday life, and that can be seen in a number of sources here – writings by missionaries, saints’ lives written for the general public or religious tracts for children – that were designed to promote religious communities and practices outside religious settings. Such sources were designed to encourage individuals to maintain their connection to the faith and to live a moral life, and emotional management was essential to such processes. Religion was perhaps a domain where the transformations of the century were not always as apparent as elsewhere, yet it too was shaped by new ideas, not least around emotion and the body. Jewish cantors brought a musicological education and eye to traditional song, drawing on contemporary ideas about how music affected the senses; several writers reflected on emotions through a biological lens of pleasure and pain when assessing their virtues. Religious feeling was reinterpreted for a new century.

18 JOHANNES HENDRI CKUS VA N DER PALM (17 6 3 – 1 8 4 0 ) , SE RMON IV. NECES S I TY OF DIVINE GRACE TO CHANGE In The Life and Character of J.H. Van Der Palm, trans. J.P. Westervelt (New York: Hurd and Houghton, 1865), pp. 240–263

Johannes Hendrickus van der Palm was a Dutch linguist, theologian, minister of the Dutch Reformed Church and Professor of Oriental Literature and Antiquities at Leiden University. The Reformed Church was formally Calvinist, but Palm was one of a group of Moderates who sought reform its teaching. The excerpts below, translated from Dutch to English, are taken from his sermon on the necessity of divine grace, where he argues that the Christian requires God’s grace to enable the spiritual transformation that leads to salvation. His description of the working of grace in the life of the Christian is as a ‘pull’ on the individual that brings them to Christ, and which offers conviction in salvation that in turns enable a range of other emotions, including joy and happiness. Across the sermon, emotions are located as ‘push’ and ‘pulls’, so that Lord dissuades with fear and terror but persuades with hope and love. If such emotions figured prominently in sermons of earlier centuries, for Palm they correspond with the pleasures and pains of the utilitarian sensate body – religious emotions are interpreted through a new biological lens. The sermon itself is also a persuasive form, deploying repetition, rhythm and similar rhetorical devices. These techniques were designed to encourage listeners to remember what was said, but also to be ‘moved’ by the text, especially when read aloud in a performance. Thus this source can be read for insight into how emotions were expected to operate in spiritual contexts and as a product designed to have emotional effects on its audience. … No man can come to me, except the Father which hath sent me draw him. — JOHN vi. 44.

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To us weak, dependent mortals, no truth is more comforting and encouraging than this, that our lot is in the hands of the wise and merciful God. With the conviction of this we bear patiently calamity and injury, because we know that they are allotted us by the hand of a Father. With the conviction of this the enjoyment of prosperity is doubly sweet to us, for we know that a paternal hand has extended to us the cup of joy. With the conviction of this our prospect of the future is clear and ample, for we know that nothing can come upon us but what the will of a Father has appointed us. But under no other aspect is this truth exhibited in such a gladdening and transporting light, as that in which it gives us the assurance that we can desire nothing that pertains to our real happiness, from that fatherly hand and that fatherly will, which we shall not certainly, certainly receive! Our foolish and inconsiderate wishes for earthly blessing, for gratification of the senses and accomplishment of our earthly plans, may for our good be thousands and thousands of times frustrated; but what we may need, to be faithful to our duty here below, to fulfil our great destination, to become capable of the blessedness of heaven, if we desire it of our heavenly Father, it shall be given us by him, who giveth liberally and possesses superabundance of gifts. And when this doctrine is revealed to us in the gospel, when it is there exhibited to us in this light, when we hear from the lips of Jesus and his Apostles that all the good that is in us is a gift of divine love by the working of his Spirit, then will we certainly not inquire whether we may not be able to dispense even with this divine grace, and this working of his Spirit; whether we may not, with the employment of all our own powers, be sufficient to ourselves, and have need of no higher light than the torch of our own reason and knowledge. No! rather will we cheerfully resign the improvement, the purification, the renovation of our hearts to Him to whom this work is infinitely better intrusted than to us. Rather will we, where the eternal Source of truth and blessedness flows for us, be watered from it, than from the scanty rills of our finiteness and weakness. Thus shall we see the heaviest burden removed from our shoulders by our God himself, and, glorying in our lot, call to one another: Come, let us work out our salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God that worketh in us both to will and to do of his good pleasure. To excite you to such sentiments, my hearers, have I selected the words of my text, with the intention,— I. After having previously unfolded and elucidated them, – II. To preach to you, in its true and comforting light, the doctrine of the necessity of the cooperation of divine grace, for the illumination and renovation of our hearts. Bless to this end our meditation, heavenly Father, who hast sent thy Son into the world to seek and to save that which was lost. Draw us to him by thy divine power, that we may here below spread abroad thine and his honor with words and deeds; and raised up by him at the last day, may thereafter praise and glorify thee forever. Amen. 146

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When we view the words read in their connection, we perceive that they contain the explanation of a phenomenon which is spoken of in what precedes. Jesus, complaining of the unbelief of the Jews, notwithstanding the great and incontestable miracles that he performed, had deemed it advisable to reveal clearly to the multitude the exalted nature of his descent and mission. He says of himself that he came down from heaven; he denominates those who believe in him, his property, given him by the Father, and promises them eternal life; promises them that he will raise them up at the last day. You read this principally in the thirty-eight and two following verses. Upon the Jews begin to mutter and murmur among themselves, saying: Is this not Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father and mother we know? How is it then that he saith, I come down from heaven? Jesus, knowing their thoughts and their secret conversations, answers them: Murmur not among yourselves. No man can come to me, except the Father which hath sent me draw him. In like manner we hear him, in the sequel of this chapter, reassert his heavenly descent, the saving power of his mission and doctrine, in sublime but emblematic terms; and as his hearers began again to murmur at these things, and to say, as we read in the sixtieth verse, This is a hard saying, who can hear it? he says, after some further preliminary re marks, in the sixty-fifth verse again: Therefore said I unto you, that no man can come unto me, except it were given unto him of my Father. And the effect of this was, that many of those hearers and disciples forsook him, and walked no more with him. Hence you see, my hearers, that we cannot give to these words, come to Jesus, and be drawn by the Father, an arbitrary sense, nor one equally feeble and general, as if they had been uttered by Jesus on an indifferent or on every occasion. Let us endeavor in this to discharge the duty of impartiality, and of sound biblical interpretation, and let us consider each of these phrases separately. No Man can come to me,—how? There came to Jesus daily thousands of hearers and pupils. Through no city, no village or borough did he pass, but all ran out to him; men forgot their calling and employments, to meet with this singular man; the concourse was often so great that one could not get near him; and they thought themselves fortunate to be able to press so far through the multitude as to be able to see or hear him. None of you will suppose that all these were drawn by the Father to Jesus; and that this therefore is what is here denominated by Jesus a coming to him. Let us distinguish this great company into certain classes, that we may know which is here intended by the Saviour, when he speaks of coming to him. With some it was curiosity alone which incited them to help enlarge the number of Jesus’ followers. The Prophet of Nazareth was the subject of all conversations, above all in the region of Galilee, where he now abode. As the multitude hasten to see a strange sight, so men rushed, to be also able to say, I have seen and heard him who creates such a sensation, causes so much talk about himself. But the natural consequence of this was, that, having satisfied their curiosity, they again left him; the one with public eulogy on what he had seen or heard, the other not dissembling that he had expected something else. It was certainly not 147

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these whose coming to Jesus was intended by him, but such as came to him to remain with him. There were then also others who sought to derive a more real advantage from his intercourse and instruction. They left not his side for a considerable time, but followed him as belonging to his school, and, as it is here and elsewhere denominated, they walked with him. But this last till they were offended at his words. When they heard him advance ideas conflicting with their notions of the Messiah’s kingdom, or which they could not reconcile with what they thought they knew of his person and descent; when they saw their old prejudices assailed, or wholly different prospects opened to them than they had expected or hoped, then they said, This is a hard saying; who can hear it? And gradually they were seen, one sooner, another later, disappearing from the suite of Jesus. That these also were not intended by him the connection itself of our text may teach us; for it is these of whom he says, that they could not come to him, because they were not drawn by the Father. In nearly the same class we must place a third sort, who might perhaps have allowed themselves to be pleased with the doctrine and prospects exhibited to them by Jesus, but who, at the bare mention of the sacrifices which he required of them, presently drew back, and would not on those terms remain his disciples. He required some to relinquish their property, others their calling and relations, others to leave father and mother and kindred to follow him. And when they, disinclined to comply with that demand, went away either grieved or indignant, they certainly also showed that they had only in appearance belonged to the genuine disciples of Jesus. In the sense, therefore, in which Jesus here makes mention of coming to him, we can apply this saying only to those who steadfastly adhered to him, without deserting him; who neither offended at this doctrine nor deterred by his exactions, were and continued faithful to him; whose heart was attached to him with inward love and veneration, and who were ready to sacrifice whatever was dearest to them for the promise of his heavenly kingdom. Try it, whether you can give a weaker sense than this to the words of Jesus, and you will find that no other, I will not say satisfies the comprehensiveness and emphasis of the phrase, but answers to what the Saviour can have intended, when he at this moment and at this point in the argument said to these men: No man can come to me. The second phrase which we must explain is this: except the Father which hath sent me draw him. You see that the expression is figurative; so was also the first, coming to Jesus, and to this the second very justly and accurately corresponds. Drawing supposes a certain constraint. Him who cannot come, we carry; him who will not come, or at least of himself would not come, we draw. It speaks however for itself, that we must explain this drawing, this constraint, in a sound sense, so as rational creatures, possessed of free agency, can be drawn, constrained, to do or to omit what is properly left to their own choice. This constraint is that of persuasion; and that Jesus would not be otherwise understood, appears from the explanation which he gives himself, at the close of the following verse: Every man 148

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therefore that hath heard, and hath learned of the Father, cometh unto me. To this corresponds also, what we have already adduced from the sixty-fifth verse, where Jesus exchanges his declaration, except the Father which hath sent me draw him, for this homogenous expression, except it were given unto him of my Father. And what apprehension must we have of this divine persuasion, without which no man can, in the sense here intended by Jesus, come to him. Come, let us again cast our eye on those to whom Jesus here spoke, that we may judge whether we must give his words a general or determinate, a weak or strong sense. ... What, then, is this efficacious divine persuasion? What else can it be, than the bestowment of the capacity to feel all the force of that word of revelation, of that preaching of the messengers of salvation? A power, an influence, a rational violence, exercised on our souls to overcome all resistance, to remove all difficulties, and to make the greatest sacrifices seem insignificant in comparison with the good that is promised us! A heavenly light in our hearts, before which the illusion of our senses vanishes, and all that pertains to our destination and our blessedness is exhibited to us in a clear and unclouded day! By which we accept all that we know to be of God! By which we take upon us what without God we should not be able to perform! A special, exclusive favor; but which, because it is a favor from God, can by none be in vain desired! Of the want of which no one can complain, because it is withheld from none but him by whom it is despised! Pardon me, my hearers, that I cannot here speak with greater clearness and definiteness; for we wander here in the secrets of human nature, in the enigmas of the human heart and understanding. Penetrate these enigmas we cannot, even though we should by philosophical bombast assume the appearance of it; we shall, perhaps, in the sequel of this discourse learn to know something more of their nature and impenetrability. It is sufficient for me at present, if I have been able, from the words of Jesus, to make you feel the necessity of the cooperation of this divine grace for the illumination and renovation of our hearts; or to adopt the words of Jesus, the necessity of being persuaded and drawn by God, if we shall in the true sense of these words, come to Jesus. II. To announce the truth and consolatory nature of this doctrine was what I had proposed to myself in the second part of my discourse. The truth of this doctrine! But think not, however, that I have appeared in this place to discuss a disputed article of faith, or to entertain you with barren speculation. If the doctrine which I would unfold to you could not be placed in such a light that it, far from kindling the fire of discord among brethren, should gloriously manifest its influence on human virtue and happiness, I should certainly have spared you from its consideration. Hear me, then, with indulgence and an unbiased judgment, whilst I dwell for a few moments on the necessity of divine grace for the persuasion of our hearts, and the mode of its operation. ... 149

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We are, as rational creatures, capable of conviction. We feel the force of motives which are presented to us, to bend our will, whether these motives are derived from our sense of truth, or of propriety, or of well-comprehended self-interest. We hear and apprehend them, and allow ourselves to be persuaded by them; to choose that which we first rejected, to approve what we first condemned, to do what we formerly omitted, and to omit what we formerly did. This is our rationality! This is our freedom! The gospel of Christ is rich in such motives, for the bending of our will; yea, where do we find motives that can be compared to these? Do we consult our sense of truth, here eternal. Truth itself speaks! Do we consult our moral sense, here speaks the source of all that is holy and good! Do we consult our self-interest, here we are urged by hope and by fear both, by promises and by threatenings; here is presented to us for transient, imperishable good, for temporal, eternal weal or woe. Here we hear the terror of the Lord warn us, the love of the All-merciful invite us! Here every thing is united to reach our heart, to move and to melt our heart. And if the motives of this gospel exerted no power over us, then should we possess no rational nature. ... Do you know a more consolatory doctrine than this, my beloved, by which all difficulties, scruples, doubts, and questionings are at once removed, and nothing hinders us from undertaking the work of our salvation with courage, prosecuting it with energy, and finishing it gloriously? Yes! It is a hazardous work, when we look at ourselves, and at the depravity that dwells in us. We, weak, sensuous, proud, and easily seduced creatures, we are called by the gospel to fight against fleshly lust and inclination; to mind the things which are above in heaven, and not those which are beneath on earth; to walk in lowliness and humility, each esteeming his brother more excellent than himself; to arm ourselves against all temptations with the armor of faith; to live temperately, justly, unblamably, to the honor of the gospel of our confession, as those who are called to the fellowship of God and his Son! Who is sufficient for these things, and whose heart does not fail when he compares a labor so arduous with powers so mean? But He that calls is faithful, and is able to build us up and give us an inheritance among them that are sanctified. Why do you then seek to excuse yourselves, ye unwilling ones? Why stand ye at a distance, ye fearful ones? Why has your zeal abated, ye who once gave your heart to Jesus? Cast away those vain excuses, ye unwilling ones, and be not lost, whilst everything calls you to salvation. Take courage, ye fearful ones, and look not at yourselves, but at the chief Shepherd of your souls unto salvation. Lift up the hands which hang down, and the feeble knees, ye who abate your zeal, as if ye had left your first love, and look to the Author and Finisher of your faith. And whoever you may be that hear me to-day, stay not away and go not back, whilst Jesus invites you to come to him! He points you to the all-sufficiency of his heavenly Father to supply all your wants. Ask of him and he will not send you empty away. He will give you his Spirit not with measure. He will fill all your treasuries. Amen. 150

19 R ELIGIOUS TRAC TS FOR CHILDREN, 1 8 3 0

The Religious Tract Society, founded in England in 1799, was one of a number of European organisations that produced short writings with moral messages, largely for the lower classes, designed to teach spiritual lessons and ensure the dissemination of Christian teachings. They were sold cheaply, or sometimes given away by charities, as part of missionising and educational efforts. A subset of these tracts that grew in importance during the nineteenth century was those targeted at children, and which offered guidance on moral living. Nineteenth-century tracts for children grew in their diversity of messages, but also in their consideration of the child as a reader, adapting in form for children as a unique audience. The text was sometimes accompanied by pictures, typically woodprint engravings of key scenes. The History of Ellen told the tale of a girl raised by a Christian mother, but who had not had personal revelation of Christ’s love, and her spiritual journey as an older teenager. Like for Palm above (source 18), emotion features strongly in the text as an evidence of God’s working in the person, or his absence. Yet, this account also wishes to emphasise that the Christian should not rely on feeling alone as a marker of spirituality, where fulfilment of duty and spiritual services – even when ‘hard-hearted’ – could be critical in producing the feeling that marked the grace of God. Emotions could also tempt one from the path of righteousness, such as when one felt attraction for a handsome suitor. Little Graves, a poem attributed to the American writer Seba Smith (1792–1868) but regularly published anonymously in the nineteenth century, was targeted at much younger children and illustrated throughout. It was designed to teach children about the death of a sibling, the grief experienced afterwards, what happened to their bodies, and that salvation offered hope in the afterlife. The child in this account is portrayed as naïvely innocent and his questioning is designed to add to the poem’s poignancy. …

The History of Ellen (London: Religious Tract Society, 1830), pp. 7–32 ELLEN —was the only surviving child of a father, who died while she was very young; and of a pious mother, who brought her up in the nurture and admonition 151

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of the Lord; and who, being herself an accomplished lady, with a very limited income, had educated her with maternal delight and solicitude. At the age of eighteen, when her history commences, Ellen was the bosom friend of her beloved parent—accustomed to share all her joys, and all her sorrows. Often would the fond mother, while perusing the word of God, unfold to her all the feelings of a christian heart, and portray the deep impressions, which its warnings, counsels, and promises had made on her own soul. At this period, Ellen began to notice the particular emphasis with which its disclosures of the world to come were dwelt upon. Sometimes her mother showed a degree of impassioned feeling when alluding to the general assembly and church of the first-born—the spirits of the just made perfect—the innumerable company of angels—to God the Judge of all, and to Jesus the Mediator of the new covenant, so that the thoughtful girl would gaze with trembling anxiety on the face which seemed to beam as it were with a ray of heaven; and a foreboding entered her mind, which proved but too true; for the mother felt that heart and flesh were failing. As yet she knew not how to break the subject to her darling child—the companion of her widowhood, and the hope of her age; but the pallid cheek and the decaying form soon told the sad tale to the alarmed girl, although for a while she supported her hope by depending on the efficacy of medical skill. Now her mother would press the things of God on her attention with tenfold earnestness, and while describing the condition of a renewed heart, the breathings of a soul adopted into the family of heaven after its God and Father, would ask with a faltering tongue, “Oh my Ellen, have you sought and found this work of the Spirit of God upon your heart? Are you a new creature in Christ Jesus?” She would weep and say, she hoped she was; and the exhausted parent would weep and hope too. But Ellen, when sometimes alone, and pondering on those things, felt there was some difference which she could not account for; the interest, the deep interest which her mother had always manifested in the word of God, struck her mind as forming a strange contrast to her own formal and listless, though regular perusal of its sacred pages. Prayer also, which called forth so frequently all the emotions of her mother’s heart, with her was rather repeating prayers than praying: still she thought she was a christian, for her conduct was blameless before all, and she was well instructed in the doctrines of the bible. Occasionally she would ask herself, “Can all this difference be owing to the diversity of years, and of situation?” But these inward debates were soon absorbed in the alarm of the rapid advance of disease in her beloved mother, to whom, with but few interruptions of conflict with doubt and fear, death came with the calmness of a summer’s evening. One glorious promise after another sustained the soul—Christ seemed increasingly, yea unspeakably precious—the work of the Holy Spirit in ripening the saint for glory, was manifest to all who were privileged to enter her chamber. It was the peaceful portal of eternal rest; and soon the power of expression became less, her placid soul seemed laid for sweet repose in the arms of Jesus, to be gathered, when He saw fit, to His glory. The bible and Christ were her all. Even the dear child, in whom she had seemed bound to earth, was given up with faith to the Lord, and resigned to His guardian care. 152

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Her passage was short through the dark valley; she one morning called gently to her daughter, who was alone with her, hastily took her pocket bible from its place on her pillow—gazed for one moment on it as her most precious treasure— then most sweetly smiling on her pale and agitated child, as if to compose her alarm, she looked unutterable affection; but suddenly holding to her the word of God, just uttered— “Here, Ellen, take, take this—faith for sight,”— and all was over. Long did the overpowered girl stand motionless, silently gazing on the beloved, altered form. She felt the ransomed spirit still near her own, and seemed to realize the presence of its angelic attendants. Worldly things vanished into nothing, and she would have fled away with the train that was ascending to Jesus. The first perception that brought her thoughts to her own situation, was the chill of the clay-cold hand, with which had been clasped in her own, while the bequeathed bible was held in the other. She pressed the precious volume to her heart, had only strength to call the nurse, and then fell down insensible. On being restored from the swoon, tears came to her relief, and then the anguish of her bereaved condition began to open upon her. She felt as having lost her all; for that dear mother had so admirably conducted her education, that the parent and the child had long experienced the delightful intercourse resulting from the continual exercise of mutual confidence and love. The guide, the companion, the provider and partaker of all her joys; the bosom friend, who had known and soothed every sorrow, and to whom she had been accustomed to open all her heart, was gone; and for many days Ellen felt as if all the world were dead to her, and she a lonely uninterested being, amidst all its scenes. But the infinitely wise arrangements of Divine Providence have not formed the mind to remain long under the overwhelming pressure of such pungent grief, and the youthful mourner, when removed to the residence of her aunt, to whose care she was now committed, after a few weeks, began to look with interest on the novel scenes to which she was introduced. Her guardian, although a professor of religion, was really devoted to gaiety, and Ellen at first felt the dissipation of mind which was induced by visiting, and the routine of fashionable amusements, in some degree a relief to the sorrow which burdened her heart. But it was not long that a mind trained like hers to constant reflection could pursue this trifling course without perceiving its emptiness and vanity. On retiring to her own room, the early-formed habit of reviewing the pursuits of the day, recurred, and, oh how light, how profitless, how strange, how beggarly did they appear to the cravings of her cultivated mind! and when, after a short period, they ceased to amuse, the remembrance of her beloved parent’s superior and ennobling converse returned, and with it came the renewed poignancy of grief. She wanted more than she found in all around her. There was no heart to feel as she did, or to share her distress. She was not only a mourner for the dead, but unhappy in herself, and knew not where to find a remedy. At length she remembered how her mother, in all her sorrow, had retired to her bible, and there found consolation; and she devoted a portion of every morning 153

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and evening, besides that allotted for devotion, to the study of its sacred pages. Still, as she came to portions marked by her dear parent’s hand, as having been found precious to her soul, Ellen wondered that she found none of that sweet consolation which she knew to have often rejoiced her mother’s heart. In fact, many of its passages appeared to have some meaning which she could not grasp, to make some appeal to the soul which she could not feel; but while musing on the strange interest which her mother found in these holy pages, and at her own strange unconcern, the thought occurred—“Is not this very apathy a part of the burden which the Lord invites me to cast on him? Must there not be some further opening of the understanding and affections of the heart, wrought by God, which I have not known?” This consideration induced the afflicted girl earnestly to pray the God of all grace, that what she knew not He would deign to teach her— that His light might be upon His word, and His power upon her soul. The Lord was now gradually drawing her to himself, yet it was not till after a patient perseverance of many weeks in this course of prayerful attention to the word, that she thought her cry had reached the ears of the Most High, and that any perceptible difference was visible to herself. But one part of divine truth after another presented itself with strange force to her meditations: especially she was long and affectingly impressed with the Redeemer’s summary of the Divine requirements—Matthew, xxii. 37,- “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy power, and thy neighbour as thyself.” The contrast of her own state of feeling with this most righteous command exposed a depravity within, of which she had hitherto no conception. That God ought to be loved, every thing showed: reason, revelation, reflection, all spoke of His loveliness, goodness, majesty, and perfection. That He had not been loved, conscience loudly declared, and brought its proofs from the actings and feelings of her soul through her whole life; but why she had not loved the ever blessed Fountain of all excellency—why her affections had so perversely wandered after every thing but Him, nothing could account for, but that alienation of soul from God, and direct enmity against him, which is declared in the scriptures to be the universal condition and condemnation of every unrenewed mind. Oh! that God should in Himself be so lovely, that He should so graciously commend His love in giving His dear Son, that the world through him might be saved, and yet not be loved by the creature He had made, and thus sought to bless! This appeared a crime so deep, a continual repetition of such enormous ingratitude, as to make her shudder at her conduct against Him, and to tremble at her character in His sight. She compared her heart with God’s law, and stood convicted of the awful charge—“They have forsaken the fountain of living water, and have hewed out to themselves cisterns, broken cisterns, which can hold no water.” She heard the inquiry, Mal. i. 6,— “If I be a father, where is mine honour? and if I be a master, where is my fear?” and none of the moral deportment, which her fellow creatures had praised, would answer it. The consciousness that God had not been in all her ways, made her tremblingly confess that He would be righteous if now He were 154

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to forsake her for ever. She read of repentance, and felt how suitable its exercise was to herself. She thought it might induce God to have pity upon her— but wondered that she could not feel. Ignorant of the deceitfulness, although she felt the depravity of her heart, she perceived not that its pride was waiting for feeling, as a disposition that would render her more worthy to receive grace, and which, in fact, refused that grace as she was. Confused in her ideas of the operation of the heart, she looked for the effect before the cause—for a kind of feeling to warrant her embracing the promise, which can only result from its being embraced. Moreover, the freeness and authority of the gospel were not understood, in their simple requirement of its reception on the command—Repent ye, and believe the gospel—Mark, i. 15. This is applicable to every hearer and in every condition; there being no more reserve in the application of this command than in the universality of the ten commandments, consequently no deficiency in our feelings can be a just reason for delay in our obedience, or can release us from the obligation to obey, any more than in the case of all other requirements. Nor can instant obedience in any case be presumption. But for want of this knowledge she was long bewildered, in seeking to deserve grace—in mourning her hard heartedness, renewing the effort and despairing of its success. At length she was brought as a poor condemned helpless creature, to cast herself with all her sins, with all her hardness of heart, with all her helplessness, on the boundless compassion of the Father of all mercies, without any fitness to induce His notice but her wants; without any plea for his favour but her desire of its possession; without any other warrant than His own invitation. She came, and the fatherless found mercy. She rested her soul on the full atonement of Jesus; she embraced His perfect obedience as a righteousness freely presented to the seeking sinner; she looked to Him to plead for her, while sensible of her own unworthiness, and of her own inability to pray. And here the Spirit of the Lord gave her rest, according to his promise, Matthew xi. 28. All that was needful to her pardon and to her peace she saw in the finished work of Jesus for her, and all that was wanted for walking with God she saw in the undertaking of the Holy Spirit to accomplish within her, Heb. viii. 10. Thus “the peace of God, which passeth all understanding,” took place of the anxiety and tears which had embittered her wounded spirit. She began to call her God “Abba Father,” to bring unto Him all her troubles as they rose, to bless Him for all her comforts as she tasted them. She cast her burden upon the Lord, and He sustained her— she leaned upon Him, and He strengthened her—she made Him her hope, and He comforted her. How differently did the scriptures now affect her mind They were full of interest, because there was the promised work of the Holy Spirit within, corresponding with the word from without; all its disclosures were suitable to her condition; she wanted what they presented; she desired what they promised; she sought after the knowledge which they unfolded. Every page was precious as food to the starving, and as water to the hart panting after the cooling brook. Hungry and thirsty, she came to the word of God, and was satisfied. Oh, how peaceful, how sweet were the hours of retirement with her God! What a new delight did she find in all the means 155

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of grace, and how cheerfully did she walk in the path of duty, although sometimes it was trying to flesh and blood! Nearly two years passed in this serene and happy fellowship with God, during which Ellen well sustained the reproach of the cross for the change. Her views of the danger to which the frivolity and vanity she saw around her exposed the souls of her former companions, led her to endeavour to manifest that danger to them. The taunts, the sneers, the affected pity with which she was assailed, affected her not. But a greater danger was near. She thought her mountain stood strong, and would never be moved. The duty of watchfulness over her heart was less cautiously observed, and that too at a time when a temptation was about to present itself, in which circumspection, attention to the voice of God, and oftentimes withdrawment from the conflict is the safest victory. Ellen was formed for society: her mind was stored with treasures that could enrich it; and her person partook of the beauty and gracefulness of her departed mother; while the usual female accomplishments had been carried to considerable extent in her education. She began to attract the attention of the other sex; especially was she admired by Mr. R—, a young man of most amiable disposition, and elegant manners, who with an elder brother had just succeeded to a respectable competency, by the death of his father. He had been educated for the law, but had now retired, content with a sufficiency for the comforts of life; and was distinguished for considerable attainments in literature—possessing at once an acute mind, great natural powers, an excellent temper, an unblemished moral character, and a pleasing person.

Little Graves (London: Religious Tract Society, 1830) ’Twas autumn, and the leaves were dry And rustling on the ground; And chilling winds went whistling by, With low and solemn sound; As through the grave-yard’s lone retreat, By meditation led, I walk’d with slow and cautious feet Above the sleeping dead. Three little graves, rang’d side by side, My near attention drew; O’er two the tall grass bending sigh’d, And one seem’d fresh and new. While musing, thoughtfully and slow, On death’s long dreamless sleep; On never-ending joy or woe; A mourner came to weep. 156

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Her form was bowed, but not with years; Her words were faint and few: And on those little graves, her tears Distilled like evening dew. A prattling boy, some four years old, Her trembling hand embraced; And from my heart the tale he told Will never be effaced. “Mamma, now you must love me more, For little sister’s dead; And t’other sister died before, And brother too, you said. “Mamma, what made sweet sister die? She loved me when we play’d: You told me, if I would not cry, You’d show me where she’s laid.” ’Tis here, my child, your sister lies, Deep buried in the ground; No light comes to her little eyes, And she can hear no sound.” “Mamma, why can’t we take her up, And put her in my bed? Ill feed her from my little cup, And then she won’t be dead. “For sister will be afraid to lie In this dark place to-night; And she’ll be very cold, and cry Because there is no light.” “No: sister is not cold, my child, For God who bade her die, Kindly look’d down from heav’n and smil’d, And called her to the sky. “And then her spirit quickly fled, To Jesus Christ above; For her his precious blood was shed; She lives with him, my love.” “Mamma, won’t she be hungry, there, And want some bread to eat? And who will give her clothes to wear, And keep them clean and neat? 157

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“Papa must go and carry some, I’ll send her all I’ve got; And he must bring sweet sister home; Mamma, now must he not? “No: my dear child, that cannot be; But if you Jesus love, Papa, mamma, and you, and she Shall live with Christ above.”

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20 W IL L IAM H. NELIGAN, S AI NTLY C HARACT ERS RECENTLY P R E SENT ED FOR CANONI S ATI ON (New York: Edward Dunigan & Brother, 1859), pp. 181–200

William H. Neligan was an Irish writer, minister, and scholar at Trinity University, Dublin. Little is known about him other than his surviving writings. His book, Saint Characters, offers an account of the lives of various people presented for canonisation within the Roman Catholic church with the intention of producing a text both ‘interesting and instructive’. Below is part of his chapter on Francis Xavier Bianchi (1743–1815), who was eventually canonised in 1951. Bianchi was born in Italy, felt called to religious life in his teens, and eventually entered the Roman Catholic Barnabite Order. He was especially known for his charity towards the poor, ascetic living, and his experience of religious ecstasy. In Neligan’s account of his life, emotion plays a critical role – Bianchi’s love shaped his behaviour; God’s love was enacted in him and through him, leading to a broad range of emotional experiences; others were drawn to him and on receiving his touch or benediction were spiritually transformed, something ‘felt’, perhaps as a flame but also as joy or the removal of sadness. The effect of the saint on others can be contrasted with Palm’s description of the grace of God acting on the Christian (source 18); saints, like Christ drew people to them. Neligan describes Christian saintly experience as an embodied transformation, educating his readers on how to identify not only future saints amongst them but providing a model for their own spiritual health. … The Blessed Mary Francis was accustomed to say, “We have had a Philip Neri;1 we shall have a Philip Bianchi.”2 The spirit of an apostle requires all charity, which precedes, as it were, every work and every trial, and makes us despise every thing which may be pleasing to us, both for the love of Christ and the good of our neighbor. These were the marks of the apostleship which were visible in St. Paul. These also may be seen in Father Bianchi. When he was paying a visit to the blessed sacrament, on one occasion, he received in his heart a wound of divine love, like St. Teresa, and he fell down 159

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fainting, and uttering a loud shriek. Those, who have assisted at his mass during the time he suffered much, have seen him so moved, that with difficulty he could keep from weeping. When the blessed sacrament was exposed, he was seen to put his hand to his heart to restrain its motions, so great was its elevation to God. When he gave absolution, or looked at a crucifix, he was so affected that he suffered from its violent palpitations. This was also witnessed when any person commenced to sing a pious hymn in his presence. The love of God, which so wondrously filled his heart, produced the most marvellous effects with respect to those around him. He spared neither his time nor his labor, if he could rescue his friends from trouble or keep them from committing sin, and reform their lives. He employed the pension he received from the government in works of charity, especially in relieving the poor orphans. Several intrusted him with their alms, knowing he would turn them to good account. Missions, and the chapels opened in the evening for the instruction of the faithful, found in him a firm friend. He prayed constantly for the conversion of sinners, and stirred up the clergy to engage themselves in this good work. He was indefatigable in hearing confessions, though he could not leave his cell without some means of support. He guided souls more by love and gentleness, than by fear and severity. He prescribed the mortification of one’s own will, saying it was the first step to perfection. All, who placed themselves under his direction, were delighted at the spiritual benefit they derived from him. His visits to the sick were attended with the most beneficial effects. His presence seemed to give them encouragement, and sometimes healed their bodies as well as relieved their minds. When he was not able to walk out to see them, he went in a carriage, and when confined altogether to his room, he sent his friends to perform this pious work. The most illustrious men came to consult him. He was the spiritual director of the Blessed Mary Francis, the Venerable Mary Clotilda of Sardinia, of cardinals, bishops, princes, and the most holy amongst the clergy. Cardinal Caracciolo, Cardinal Scilla, princes, and others, came constantly to see him for the good of their souls. His door was always open, and persons of every description filled the passages around, being desirous to visit him about their spiritual state. The number was so great that it was feared he would give offence to the government, and even reports were spread of his being arrested. His prudence appeared to be the result, not merely of experience and study, but had something supernatural about it. This induced many to make long journeys for the purpose of consulting him. They had often to wait many hours before they could see him, so great was the crowd, that sought his advice and his assistance. All these works of charity went on during the ten years that he suffered from his maladies. When he was not able to go to the church and say mass, he usually offered up the holy sacrifice in a chapel that was near his cell. His sufferings appear to have been very great. During the two last years of his life he was able scarcely to take any nourishment. He suffered much mentally, from the times in which he lived, and was greatly afflicted at the persecutions, which assailed both the Church and the sovereign pontiff. In 1804 he lost his mother, to whom he was much attached. In 1809 the 160

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congregation of which he was a member was suppressed. Such, however, was his love for his order, that he did not wish to give up either his cell or the rules. Amidst all his trials, joy and calmness were depicted on his countenance, and he thanked God for being permitted to suffer. He often repeated the words of St. Augustine: “Burn me, wound me, do not spare me.” Following the example of St. Camillus, he called his wounds “the mercies of God.” “One day,” states one of the witnesses,” as if directed by an inward monitor, I saw him at a different hour from that on which I usually went. I found him surrounded by a crowd of persons. He lay in such a state that all supposed he was near his death. I desired every one to leave, for he would sooner die than tell any person to go away.” ... The ministry exercised by the servant of God, during the last fifteen years of his life, is well known to have produced a most extraordinary effect. Even those who merely conversed with him found their hearts softened, and desired to become better. All said he was another Philip Neri, and that it was enough to hear him speak of God, to be resolved to love him. These intercourses were sufficient to put his hearers in raptures, and make them forget the world. “Whenever,” writes one of the witnesses, “he gave me absolution, I experienced such an influence from merely speaking with him that I could not prevent myself from passing the entire day before the blessed sacrament.” His conversation, his look, and the very touch of his hand seemed to change men. “His mode of speaking was so penetrating,” one of the witnesses states,“that I feel the benefit of it even to this day. It was sufficient to see him in his room to make me become a different person to what I was before. He put his hand on my head, and I experienced within me an emotion, like a flame of fire, which extended from my head through all my body; his look inspired me with the greatest purity, and banished all evil thoughts from my mind.” He was very successful in calming the troubles of those who suffered from spiritual or temporal trials. He had the gift of doing this by laying his hand on their heads, or by making the sign of the cross on their foreheads. “I went one day,” adds another witness, “to see Father Bianchi. I told him my trials and my troubles. He spoke to me, amongst other matters, respecting the blessed sacrament and devotion to it. In a moment I found the hand of God on me; all my sadness was removed, and I had a joy such as I never experienced before. When he placed his hand on my shoulder, I felt that palpitation of my heart, which he was said to suffer from, when he was filled with the flame of holy love. I was obliged to have recourse to prayer to put an end to it.” Mention has already been made of several prodigies, and miraculous signs with which he was affected. In order to afford consolation to the faithful at this period of revolutions and public calamities, it pleased God to make known to Father Bianchi the events, which afterwards took place in Spain and in Russia, and he foretold the return of Pius VII. In directing souls he knew their secret thoughts, which they had not made known to any person. He predicted the death of several 161

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persons. He appeared in the air, surrounded with light, to a soul, in order to give it consolation. On three different occasions he stopped the flames of Vesuvius, twice by giving his benediction, and at another time by the aid of a statue. He went through the rain, accompanied by another person, without it touching them. He multiplied the money of one man, and with his own frugal repast he was in the habit of supporting five persons. He also cured many miraculously. He touched one, who was at the point of death, and healed him. He did the same for another by praying for him. Many, who were ill, were freed from their diseases through his intercession. ... A witness who is yet living, and who is one of the most zealous priests in Naples, stated in his testimony several circumstances, which deserve to be related. The first time this priest saw Father Bianchi, he was twenty-four years old, and was then a layman. His appearance produced a strong impression on him, and he seemed like another St. John the Baptist. “He was surrounded with light, which affected my eyes. When he placed his hand on my head, I felt an internal commotion, like a holy flame, going through my whole body. I conceived at that time a great idea of his sanctity, and wished much to visit him often. Fifteen days afterwards I went to see him. He was very glad that I had called on him a second time, and he told me I should rejoice, for our Lord was going to do great things for me. I visited him at another time, when I had committed a secret sin, and he desired me to go to confession as soon as I could. He mentioned what I had done wrong. On another occasion, when I was absent from Naples about ten months, in order to avoid the conscription, he stated all the sins I had committed, whilst I was away from the city. He often anticipated me, when I went to see him, by mentioning to me the purpose for which I called. He also told me of my vocation, and the nature of the duties which would afterwards devolve upon me. I saw him once in an ecstasy, and he related what I should be engaged in at the present time. I went to call on him during the novena preceding Pentecost, and related to him my spiritual coldness. He went into an ecstasy, and declared that I should receive two visitations from the Holy Ghost, and had better take care not to fall. I, however, did not mind what he said; and whilst going down the stairs, I felt myself struck twice on the heart, and was thrown each time against the wall. I shed tears copiously. He did not give me absolution very easily. He only granted it to me three times during the year, for he required a great disposition on my part to receive it. He told me one day, that he had asked God to give him a sign, when he should grant it to me. He did not, however, deprive me of frequent communion.” These circumstances are not, however, to be judged by the ordinary rules. Father Bianchi desired, no doubt, to prepare him by the most perfect disposition, to receive an abundance of heavenly grace. Father Bianchi loved his mother much; but like St. Francis Xavier, his patron, who went to India without going out of his way to visit his relations, he resisted all her entreaties to go see her before she died. “Give me this consolation,” writes 162

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his mother; “I know the influence obedience has with you, and I am sure I shall prevail with you to come and see me.” Father Bianchi replied to his mother in the following terms:—“At your advanced age you have me always near you, if you always seek me in God, for we are all in him. We should be persuaded of this, that being pilgrims, and travellers here, we cannot all lodge in the same inn. We must march onwards, that we may proceed to our happy, and eternal home. Let us endeavor to put all our care to arrive there happily, in our Lord. Let our desire be to find ourselves united in that blessed country, where we shall no more be separated from each other, throughout all eternity. Let us take no account of what is merely transitory. Let us only think of, and endeavor, and sigh after these—to see God, to love God, to possess God, without fear of ever losing him.” All this shows the pure love he had for his mother. He loved her in God, and for God, and desired to inspire her with the same holiness of affection. He concluded by wishing her all spiritual good; and for temporal blessings desired her to seek only the will of God. He said, once, to a friend, that when his mother gave him her blessing, he told her, “We shall behold each other in paradise.” He saw her once or twice after he became a Barnabite. Charity is more perfect in the saints than in other individuals. They should therefore love their relations more than others do; but the purity of their affections excludes all mixture with flesh and blood. God, who in the natural law desires us to love our relations, says in the gospel, “that whosoever loves his relations more than he loves him, is not worthy of him.” “A faithful saying,” says St. Bernard, “and worthy of all acceptation. Although it is impious to despise our mother, nevertheless, to despise her for the sake of Christ, is most pious.” So great was his attachment for the religious state, that when the military government had suppressed the various orders, he did not wish to quit the college of Portanova, where he dwelt. In this respect he imitated Mgr Menochio, another servant of God, the sacristan of Pius VII., who accompanied that pontiff to Paris, in 1804, and wore the dress of an Augustinian. After the departure of the pope from Rome, in 1809, he continued to occupy his rooms in the Quirinal Palace, and to wear his habit. Father Bianchi acted in a similar manner. He lived in his cell, and followed the rules as if the community resided in the house. He was in the choir at the appointed hour, and also went out at the usual times to perform his works of charity. He observed his vows most rigidly, when the order was finally suppressed. He did not ask any thing of any person; for God allowed the piety of his friends to supply him with all he needed. He had much difficulty to overcome the repugnance which he felt in accepting their gifts. Cardinal Caracciolo presented him with a silver dish; but he continued to use the one which belonged to the order. Whenever he wanted a dispensation for anything, he asked the permission of his confessor. Chevalier Bonocore tells us that when the congregation was suppressed he asked him to his house, that he might obtain some relief for the malady from which he suffered; and also that the great number of persons who were looking after him, might be enabled to see him without causing any suspicion to the government. He would not, however, come until he had obtained the permission of the former superior. He then used to spend some days, and often entire months 163

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in the country-house, which was situated in a village on the way to Portici. One day, when the Chevalier and Father Bianchi were sitting in a balcony which overlooked a country that was crowned with a rich harvest, the saint commenced to praise God for what he saw. The Chevalier told him that he had always desired to obtain a portion of land which was near his house, but that he could not succeed, as it belonged to proprietors who were always buying some new place, but would never sell any of what they had acquired. Father Bianchi told him that he should yet possess what he pointed out, and also more in addition to this. The Chevalier smiled when he thought of the condition of his affairs, but Father Bianchi put his hands on his shoulders and told him to have confidence, for that it was not he who said so; and added, that he would also receive a decoration. This prediction was verified in every particular. ... To hear him speak of things which he regarded, it was necessary to introduce topics connected with the love of God, pious hymns, or devout pictures. On one occasion, the singing of a hymn produced in him those emotions which have been already recorded, and a person present threw himself on his knees, and said, “How is it that you have this gift so abundantly, and we have so little of it? show us how to acquire some of this holy love.” “I have,” replied Father Bianchi, “prayed our Lord to impress his image on my heart as he did on the Veil of St. Veronica; do you do the same, and I hope that our Lord will hear you.” After this he was thrown into a fit of agitation, and when he returned to himself, he said, “What have you made me say; God forgive you.” Another person came to him, and was affected with great sorrow. He did not wish to discover its cause to the servant of God. At last he said to him, “I shall tell you my secret, if you will tell me yours.” Father Bianchi agreed to this. The other then said, “Whence comes this palpitation of the heart?” This question seemed to surprise him. “However, I kept him to his promise,” adds the narrator, “when he said to me, ‘From what do you think it comes?’ I replied, that I thought it came from the fire of charity. Then, like St. Philip Neri, who did not doubt the propriety of making a similar avowal to Cardinal Borromeo, he replied, ‘Yes, you are right, my son, this palpitation is the gift of the Holy Ghost. There was a time when I was obliged to leave a Church where the Blessed Sacrament was exposed, that I might not show this gift to others. It was a constant miracle that I was able to live. Our Lord has deigned to visit me, with the sorrow of his wounds, to calm with an opposite force the flame of my heart.’” The recital of this caused a deep emotion in Father Bianchi, but it filled him with a joy which lasted for a very long time.

Notes 1 Philip Romolo Neri (1515–1595). 2 This is amusing because Neri sounds like black in Italian and Bianchi like white.

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21 INDIA’S WOMEN ( 1 8 8 2 )

India’s Women was a periodical magazine published by the Church of England Zenana Missionary Society and designed to update British readers on their activities in India and to encourage financial donations to support their activities. Zenana was the part of the house in Hindu and Muslim communities in India that was reserved to the women of the family; thus the missionary society was particularly dedicated to work amongst women and children. The magazine was especially targeted at female readers, providing content about women’s experience in India. Its gendered focus reflected that middleclass British women increasingly viewed helping other women, especially those believed to be less fortunate, as their special domain of charitable and missionising activity. Like other Christian texts, the experience of the faith is often rendered using an emotional language and described as a physical experience. The magazine is also interesting as a persuasive medium designed to encourage donations. The first article below provides an account of Phoebe in the bible, which had a clear subtext of highlighting the importance of women’s charitable and missionary work in their communities. It was a text that authorised the activities of the Zenana Missionary Society, whilst also suggesting that those who could not perform this function personally could contribute through their financial resources. The second article addresses what was presumably a criticism of their work, that converting the wives and children of Hindu and Muslim families could be dangerous to women taking up a different faith from their families. Here they not only refer to the spiritual importance of their work, but use emotional descriptions of those who they have saved to justify and reinforce their activities. Glimpses of the engagement between British and Indian women can also be explored, and perhaps read critically for insights into the latter’s experience. These articles therefore both describe emotions in religious work and are designed to encourage certain forms of generosity and charitable support for religious activities. …

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Rev J.E. Sampson, ‘The Women Workers of the Bible: VI. Phoebe’, India’s Women 2, no. 7 (Jan-Feb 1882), pp. 2–5 We know nothing of Phoebe except what we gather from the first and second verses of that deeply interesting chapter, Romans xvi. She is called by St. Paul ‘our sister.’ The Church of God is a family. The members of the family, born of God, cry unto God, ABBA, Father; and their new relation to each other is that of brothers and sisters. The relationship is real; it is of the Holy Ghost; it is ‘in Christ’. He has made us His brethren, His sisters. Remember, are not His words, ‘Whosoever shall do the will of God, the same is my brother, and my sister,’ yea also, ‘and mother’? Have we not then a loving responsibility for our Zenana-workers? They are not independent units, ladies who have given themselves to a good work, whom we have helped, and may occasionally help, in the future, but in whom we have no personal interest. They are our sisters. They are more: they are the sisters of our Saviour. We may not leave them without thought, without sympathy, without prayer and praise. Let us rather esteem them very highly in love for their work’s sake. Phoebe is also ‘a servant of the church which is in Cenchrea’. Cenchrea was a few miles from the city of Corinth, a port on the coast, of no great importance. Paul had already been there, and there, perhaps by his ministry, a church had been formed. And of this church Phoebe was ‘a servant.’ She was truly, then, one of the ‘women-workers of the Bible.’ The word ‘servant’ may also be rendered ‘deaconess,’ and the question arises whether Phoebe held an official position, so styled, in the Cenchrean church. Our Revisers1 appear to think not, for though their fingers evidently itched to make changes where they could by reasonable possibility be made, they have retained the word servant, and have placed the word deaconess in the margin. The term is not necessarily official, and yet it must be said that it is the term which would be used if the position held by Phoebe had been official. I notice too, that the Revisers have given us the word women in 1 Tim iii. II, instead of wives, implying that the instructions given in that verse were addressed to women-deacons, and not to wives of deacons. The learned Bishop Ellicot also so renders the word, and points out the absence of all reference to domestic duties, which is not the case when the deacon is instructed (verse 12), but he admits ‘that it is somewhat difficult to decide.’ We will not here pursue the discussion. This at least is clear, that Phoebe was ‘a servant of the church.’ She had voluntary devoted herself to the work of God, and that in meek subjection to the church of which she was a member. Not as a bond-servant, but that she might minister in things temporal or spiritual to others. Though she was an active and earnest Christian, she did not act apart from other Christians. She remembered that if she were a ‘servant,’ she was also a ‘sister.’ I cannot say precisely in what works her service lay, but the apostle tells us she was ‘a succourer of many.’ I suppose she might be seen with her basket in the

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house of distress, smoothing the pillow of the sick, and especially carrying in her vessel (see the beautiful words of Jesus in Act ix. 15) the Name which is above every name, pouring forth the precious ointment, and filling many a dull chamber of the sweet odour of the NAME. In those days of the church’s infancy she would have many occasions for this. The widows and the aged would claim her care; the sick and troubled, the persecuted and forsaken. Among these she had earned a good degree. The record of inspiration tells us she was ‘a succourer of many.’ There were, there are now, ‘many’ who need the succour which only a Christian heart can devise, which only a woman’s hand can bestow. I think she must have been the almoner of others’ wealth, especially when I remember that she not only did service, but that she is expressly called ‘a servant’. It would be well if our congregations would look upon our kind, and often selfsacrificing, district visitors and labourers, far and near, and intrust them with the means of being more bountifully ‘the succourers of many.’ I know not in what way Phoebe had succoured the apostle-preacher. Perhaps, like Lydia,2 she had opened her house to receive, and her store to support, him when he was at Cenchrea. Or perhaps when he was in trouble there she had, like Onesiphorus,3 ‘sought him out very diligently,’ and had ‘oft refreshed’ him, not ashamed of his ‘chain.’ However it might be, the apostle had a grateful recollection of her succour. Let me never forget the kindness which, in my sorrow, has sought me out and solaced me. And she did it not by proxy, but herself. The Revised Version brings this out, saying, ‘for she herself also have been a succour of many.’ This little bit of colouring in the picture is very beautiful, very suggestive. She brought herself in contact with the sufferings she relieved. Her own heart was touched by what she herself saw. Her sympathies were stirred, her prayers called forth, her praises awakened. The mere subscriber, in our days, loses all this. To ‘visit the fatherless and widow’ is a means of grace. What cares, but what joys, our sisters have in the close and stifling Zenanas! But if a ‘sister’ may not ‘she herself’ be a ‘succourer’ (for all are not called to this), still let her help, and pray for, and rejoice with, those that are. And now the apostle had a work for her to do. It maybe she had ‘business’ of her own at Rome. But whether sent for this special purpose or not, she was intrusted to be the bearer of, perhaps, the most precious of all the Epistles. This was a high honour. This shows how worthy of his confidence she was. She must have been a faithful ‘servant’ to be so trusted. Diligence always finds its reward. What a day of joy and wonder it must have been when, for the first time, that Epistle was read in the congregation! The apostle commends his messenger to the Roman church,—‘I commend unto you Phoebe, that ye receive her in the Lord.’ He had said—‘He that receiveth you, receiveth Me.’ Let me remember this when the ‘deputation’ is my guest. He bids them also receive her ‘as becometh saints.’ Let her feel that she is with the holy, that she is welcomed herself as holy. And as the apostle trusted her, so he 167

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would have them trust her, and ‘in whatsoever matter she may have need of you,’ he bids them to ‘assist her.’

‘IV’, India’s Women 2, no. 9 (May-June 1882), pp. 140–43 ‘He that loveth father or mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me.’ Matt. X. 37.

‘But is it not a pity to disturb the peace and happiness of the homes of these poor Indian women.’ This is a query which is not unfrequently made, and indicates a sentiment probably strongly felt in some circles. Were we simply engaged in a philanthropic movement, striving to give the inmates of the Zenanas the comforts attendant on the progress and civilization of the West, we might almost echo the query, and say ‘Is it worth while?’ Many, however, even of those who would not sympathise in the main object of the Zenana Mission, would yet reply, ‘Undoubtedly it is; shall we see our poor fellow-subjects downtrodden, as many of these poor women are, and do nothing to help them? Shall we let their bright intellects, of which we have undoubted proof, lie wasted for want of cultivation? While enjoying the pleasures of social intercourse and intellectual feasts, should we not be haunted by the cry of yearning hearts (the almost reproachful cry well known to those who visit the homes of these our Indian sisters), “Will you not help us to enjoy these sweets of life which as mothers, wives, or daughters, you regard as your right?”’ Much might be advanced in favour of our Mission from this point of view, besides what has been said in the preceding pages, but setting aside this secondary consideration, shall we not rather remember the Saviour’s injunction, as specially applied to Gospel truths, ‘Freely ye have received, freely give’? Are we not bound in this case to do our part towards carrying out His great command to take the knowledge of the Gospel to every creature? Our Saviour, when on earth, forewarned His disciples that those who would follow Him must expect tribulation, and one special trial to which they would be exposed He alludes to in the following terms, ‘I came not to send peace, but a sword; for I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and a man’s foes shall be they of his own household.’ It is true that even in Christian England cases are not unknown where members of a family not receiving sympathy in matters of religion, have not only been cut off from real family intercourse, but have been treated with something very nearly akin to persecution. The trials and sorrows of our fellow-Christians in India are however such as happily could not be known in our civilised country now, though the annals of the early Church bear testimony to as bitter and cruel a persecution in these our English isles, and were but the details known, the story of many a martyr might be added to the list of British saints. These are, however, stories of the past, and perhaps in 168

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these peaceful days (secured to us, be it remembered, by the brave endurance of our persecuted ancestors) it is hardly to be wondered at that many should scarce comprehend that persecution and family division are the inevitable consequence of the earlier efforts to introduce Christianity into any land, and that failing to see this, they should join in the cry, ‘what pity to disturb the peace and harmony of the families in India!’ There is, however, one view of the case which is often a real difficulty to the missionary in India, and that is when it becomes a question of separation between husband and wife. Is it right to induce a woman to break those ties, so sacred in the eyes of a Hindu wife that ‘she looks upon her husband as her god’? It is, indeed, far from being our wish thus to break up the homes of those we teach; the Bible inculcates the very reverse. St. Paul, when writing on the subject, says, ‘The woman which hath an husband that believeth not, and if he be pleased to dwell with her, let her not leave him; for the unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife, . . . for what knowest thou, O wife, whether thou shalt save thy husband?’ From the apostle’s words relative to the unbelieving husband, ‘if he be pleased to dwell with her,’ it is plainly evident that it was not uncommon thing in Corinth and other places in apostolic times for wives who had received the truth as it is in Jesus to be in consequence cast off, as is almost universally the case in India. How gladly would we urge upon the dear converts the admonition of St. Paul, ‘Let her not leave him;’ but alas! however willing, nay, anxious, the poor wife may be to remain with her family, the sad system of caste prevents it, and ‘the unbelieving husband’ as a rule would with scorn refuse to re-admit into his house the wife who had been received into the Christian Church by baptism. Such, indeed, are the trammels of caste, that it is almost an impossibility for any one, man or woman, who has embraced Christianity, to remain in a heathen home. In consequence of this, I think few, if any, of our missionaries urge upon the poor Hindu wives or mothers the necessity for baptism; the truths of the Gospel are put before them, and then, though our hearts may bleed for what we know they will have to endure, yet we cannot but rejoice should they, by the Holy Spirit’s influence convinced of sin, accept the salvation offered through the blood of Christ, and becoming ‘obedient to the Word,’ demand our help in enabling them to carry our the Saviour’s own command by acknowledging themselves by baptism to be His disciples. It is almost a marvel that the inmates of the Zenanas, naturally timid, and totally unaccustomed to the outer world, should ever muster up courage to brave all and thus venture to come to their Christian teachers and claimed to be received into the Church of Christ; but when, with the help of God’s Holy Spirit strengthening them, they do thus breakthrough the difficulties with which they are surrounded, may we not apply the apostle’s words and say, ‘Who are we, that we should forbid water that these should be baptized?’ Were it not for this difficulty, many more names will be added to our churches in India, for the case of a dear pupil of mine is by no means an isolated one; often has she professed her love for her Saviour, saying, with tears in her eyes, ‘Ah! it is not faith (i.e. belief) which I need, it is only courage.’ Well do I remember reading with her a passage relative to the second 169

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coming of our Lord; noticing her look of distress, I said, ‘But is not the thought of His return a very happy prospect?’ Never shall I forget her agonised look as she said, ‘Ah! to you it is, but not to me, because I am denying Him.’ She did acknowledge Him in her home, as far I believe as circumstances would permit, but she felt she ought to brave all and confess Him by baptism in obedience to His word. She was a widow and childless; in her case therefore I had no hesitation in urging her to carry out her design. It is sometimes a painful duty of the missionary to be a party to the separation between husband and wife; it cannot be otherwise; at the same time it is no uncommon thing for the heart of the Zenana missionary to be cheered by a young man coming with the urgent request, ‘Do teach my wife all about the Saviour; it is my purpose to acknowledge myself a Christian, and I am anxious that my wife should come out from heathenism with me.’ With what delight does a Zenana missionary receive such an announcement! Under these circumstances, to be privileged to lead a pupil to Jesus is about the happiest work that can fall to her lot; and our missionary annals afford instances of the young convert rejoicing in being accompanied by his wife, when, standing at the font, they have together enrolled themselves as followers of the Lord. But how many instances could we cite where a young man on becoming a Christian has not only been cut off from all intercourse with his father’s house, but whose wife, denied all communication with her husband, has been taught to look upon him as the worst of criminals, many imaginary crimes being added to that of having forsaken his father’s gods! May the day be not far distant when the labours of our missionaries both among the men and the women of the land, shall by the blessing of God be crowned with such success that many a believing husband and wife may be found willing and able together to acknowledge themselves disciples of a crucified Redeemer, strengthened by His Holy Spirit to take up their cross and follow Him, ‘looking unto Jesus, the Author and Finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame,’ who at His coming again shall receive them into that blessed home above, where ‘God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.’

Notes 1 Those who had offered a new translation of the bible. 2 Lydia of Thyatira 3 See 2 Tim 1:16–18 and 2 Tim 4:19.

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Joseph Sulzer (1850–1926) was an Austrian composer, particularly known for his contributions to Jewish religious music. He wrote a wide range of music and lyrics designed for worship in synagogues and that were published as popular song books. The Rev Dr Alois Kaiser (c.1840–1908) was the cantor of Oheb Shalom Temple, New York, and a composer whose music was used in devotional services across the world. Below is ‘song 339’ – its music and lyrics – from Sulzer’s Schir Zion songbook, which Kaiser describes in the article below as music that ‘overwhelmingly affects the listener’ and as the ‘plaintive cry of a distressed soul’. Accessing the emotions that music produced in past listeners raises significant challenges for historians, and being able to connect particular pieces of music like Sulzer’s here with musical criticism of its emotional effect, such as that produced by Kaiser, can provide a helpful entry point. As this source suggests, music was closely associated with emotion in the nineteenth century, and that was considered important in religious contexts, where music could be used to enhance religious and spiritual experiences by influencing how people felt. The impact of music varied and so the use of particular songs or tunes reflected what nineteenth-century audiences expected of music within specific contexts; the account below which describes the effects of songs used in Temple and why they take the form that they do helps to elucidate the role of emotional music within the Jewish religious tradition, and how it made people feel. …

Figure 22.1 Joseph Sulzer, Schir Zion: Gesämge für den israelilischen Gottesdiensl von Salomon Sulzer, 2 vols (Frankfurt: J. Kauffman, 1922), ii, p. 255, no. 339.

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Rev. A Kaiser, ‘Suzler’s Music’, Year Book of the Central Conference of American Rabbis, 1904–5664, vol. XIV (Baltimore: The Lord Baltimore Press 1904), pp. 237–43 If Salomon Sulzer was the regenerator of the music of the synagogue and the perpetuator of its chants and melodies, there must have been music of the synagogue to be regenerated and chants and melodies to be perpetuated. To my mind the existence of Jewish music is a fact, and I desire at the outset to place myself on the side of that group of investigators which has established beyond a doubt that the aggregate of the characteristic qualities of the traditional chant (Chasoanuth) unmistakably points to the existence of a separate and distinct type of music. I cannot agree with those who maintain that we have entirely forgotten the beautiful strains of the temple of Zion and that our present songs and melodies are all of foreign origin. Of course, we are not the inventors of music ancient or modern as Dr. I.S. Moses rightly contends, just as we are not the inventors of language or of poetry. Language is the vehicle of thought as music is that of the emotions, and yet, we have various languages and different kinds of music to give expression to thought and emotion. While we have no written evidence of the style of the Jerusalemic tunes we have the assurances of tradition on this point. The Jews are essentially a conservative people and tradition plays an important part in their history, religion and life. If we take the traditional chant and analyse it we find that it is based on three modes. The first of these is similar to the Greek aolean,1 the second to the AraboPersian ushak2 and the third,3 in which by far the greatest number of chants are sung, has no parallel in any system of music. This is distinctively Jewish.4 All compositions written in these modes or in which passages occur bearing their characteristics appeal especially to the Jewish ear, they have a Jewish colouring. The traditional chant must be distinguished from the so-called traditional melodies. The latter are modern and are only the adopted children of the synagogue. We have, however, been so long and so closely identified with it that the people have gotten to love them as much as the traditional chant. Some of them are common to all, like the Kol-nidre, showing the early period of their adoption, while others are only known in certain localities. Thus the Polish Jews have traditional melodies unknown to the Russian Jews, and the German Jews many that are strange to both, whereas the traditional chant is with but slight modifications the same among them all. In speaking of Jewish music I do so entirely from an Ashkenasic standpoint for I am satisfied that the chants of the Sephardim, which have not the slightest similarity to ours, can bear no resemblance to those which were employed by our ancestors in Jerusalem. On this point let me quote the Rev. Francis L. Cohen of London, an authority on the subject: “The position of the Hebrews in Spain was till the end of the fourteenth century, happy and fortunate as compared with that of their brethren in other parts of Europe. Their noble literature shows, especially in its poetry, how much they came under Arab influence, and this was

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particularly strong upon their music which became characteristically Moorish. The Ashkenasim or Jews of northeastern and central Europe must have preserved their ancient prayer-melodies without any substantial modification from outside influence. None of these Jews appear to have ever come into such close communion with their neighbors as did their brethren in Spain, and never until the Renaissance began to influence the European character was their position such that they could look upon anything appertaining to their neighbors as a thing to be followed or imitated. Their history for many centuries is an uninterrupted record of persecution and hatred. Through all these hardships they could not but have preserved their ancient music on unmodified and uninfluenced by either the sacred or secular song of the neighbors. Hence until the sixteenth century when there became visible some faint glimpses of the coming dawn of freedom, they chose their numerous melodies from the tuneful improvisations of their own brethren.”5 Sulzer’s efforts were directed towards the elevation of the song service of the synagogue to the highest plane of modern art and to the preservation in modern musical form of the Ashkenasic melodies and chants. Before proceeding to examine his works let us hear what he himself has to say on the conditions that confronted him at the start: “The world of tones,” he says, “was never altogether silent in Israel; the noble strains that re-echoed from a better past always remained on the lips and in the heart of the people. But, to what maltreatment had they been subjected, what company were they forced to keep, how had ignorance and bad taste sinned against them. If the field had only been barren and fallow I would have consoled myself with the thought that it would yield to the plough and become fertile, but it was covered with weeds and overgrowth which made it almost impassable. The nature of its soil was misunderstood and unskilled hands had bestowed wrong treatment upon it. A slovenly indifference had crept in which united with prejudice and false piety impeded the way to all progress and reform.”6 Sulzer was a reformer as well as an organizer. His sense of the artistic was highly developed. Irregularity and discord were as repugnant to him as land as to fish. His first task was to abolish the prevailing chaotic mode of worship. The “Schreien”7 and “Nacksagen”8 of the “Judenschule”9 was immediately done away with. He defined the province of the cantor, designated that of the congregation and created a new factor in the service, the choir, which was to complement the functions of both. The gift of his musical genius to these three participants in the reorganized service was the recitativo to cantor, the choral to the choir and the responses to the congregation. The style of music determined upon was modern; as an artist he could not decide otherwise but as a devout Jew it was equally impossible for him to give up all traditional chants and Jewish mode with its characteristic intervals wonderfully adapted to the yearning and longing of Israel for the return of 10‫ שכינה‬to Zion. Even 11‫ נגינה‬was not neglected by him; examples of its use are few, the best being the 12‫ השיבנו‬in volume II.13 The entire Ecahn’ginah to the first verse is here most successfully brought out in simple harmony. If the lamentations of Jeremiah are unsurpassed and elegiac beauty Sulzer’s composition to the first five verses of the fifth chapter of Lamentations stands 173

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unrivalled in the liturgical music of the synagogue.14 Although written in the modern key, I know of no traditional melody or chant which so overwhelmingly affects the listener as this plaintive cry of a distressed soul. ‫“ זכר ה‘ מה היה לנו‬Remember, O Lord, what has occurred to us” comes in soft and sobbing unison from all the male voices followed by the grief-shaken supplication of the tenors, who imploringly beseech God ‫“ הביטה וראה את חרפתנו‬look down and behold our disgrace”; suddenly the leading voice breaks out in the plaint ‫“ נחלתנו נהפכה לזרים‬our inheritance is turned over to strangers,” and a few piercing notes of the trebles recall the wailing of women and children. The rhythmic tumult rises higher and higher until the climax is reached in the heart-rending lamentation ‫“ יגענו ולא הונח לנו‬we are fatigued and no rest is allowed us.” They are beautiful strains these children of an inspired soul. Let us retain them in the American synagogue, especially these conceived in the spirit of the traditional chants and melodies. Let us retain them alongside of the best productions of modern composers as Sulzer did. An eminent authority15 though not of our faith has this to say about them, “these melodies are to the musician a source of infinite delight. They often appear as the spontaneous outpouring of devout souls and one is at a loss how such outbursts of melody could have been so faithfully preserved for countless ages without a more substantial and enduring medium than popular tradition. Many are so touching in expression; others so grand in force that the affect us powerfully even though most of us may not be able to decipher their text.” They are an inheritance which challenges the admiration of the entire world, an heirloom of which we may well be proud. They will not only add dignity and solemnity to our service, but will help to supply the Jewishness for which the learned and eloquent rabbi of my congregation, the Rev. Dr. Wm. Rosenau, recently made such a strong plea.16 “It is Jewishness,” said he, “we need to-day more than ever.” Jewishness in the home, Jewishness in the synagogue and Jewishness in our life.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

abcdefga c d e f g a b♭ c c d♭ e f g a♭ b♭ c Singer, die Tonarten des traditionelles Synagogengesanges. Rise and development of synagogue music. Introduction to Schir Zion vol. I. Cries. Accusations. Synagogue, but referring to an older style of worship. Divine presence. Music. We replied. Schir Zion vol. II, No. 337. Schir Zion vol. II, No. 339. Prof. Dr. Ferdinand Hiller. “Our religious needs,” Dr. Wm. Rosenau.

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23 THÉRÈS E OF LI SI EUX (1873–1897), STORY OF A S OUL (L’HISTOIRE D’UNE AM E) : THE AUTOBIOGRA PHY OF ST THÉRÈSE OF L I S I EUX Ed. T. N. Taylor (London: Burns, Oates & Washbourne, 1912), pp. 113–120

Thérèse of Lisieux, born Marie Françoise-Thérèse Martin, was a remarkably popular French Roman Catholic saint, whose massive following led to her rapid canonisation following her death at twenty-four in 1897. Thérèse felt called to the church from her early teens, finally entering the Carmelite order when she was fifteen. As a young nun, she desired to do ‘large’ things for Christ – to go on mission, to be martyred – and was frustrated by the limited opportunities for such spiritual action. In time she came to realise that spiritual life and benefit could be found in, what she termed, the ‘little way’, that is in the every day practices of the faith and in small acts of love and devotion, such as prayer. She began promoting this message to those around her, including her sisters and the priests that she served. Slowly dying of tuberculosis in her early twenties, she wrote her approach in a number of texts, not least the autobiography she produced at the request of her prioress. The latter, which was translated from French, published by her followers and excerpted below, used descriptions of her everyday religious life, and motivations for her actions, to offer an account of a holy life that could be emulated by ordinary people. Like other saint’s lives, the experience of emotion were central evidences of spiritual life, but also, in the case of love, something to be aspired to as an affective practice. A cult of Thérèse quickly built after the publication of her autobiography, where people were attracted to the simplicity of the message but likely also her gender-appropriate modesty and service-orientated account of her life. … It is not only when He is about to send me some trial that Our Lord gives me warning and awakens my desire for it. For years I had cherished a longing which 175

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seemed impossible of realisation—to have a brother a Priest. I often used to think that if my little brothers had not gone to Heaven, I should have had the happiness of seeing them at the Altar. I greatly regretted being deprived of this joy. Yet God went beyond my dream; I only asked for one brother who would remember me each day at the Holy Altar, and He has united me in the bonds of spiritual friendship with two of His apostles. I should like to tell you, dear Mother, how Our Divine Master fulfilled my desire. In 1895 our holy Mother, St. Teresa,1 sent my first brother as a gift for my feast. It was washing day, and I was busy at my work, when Mother Agnes of Jesus, then Prioress, called me aside and read me a letter from a young Seminarist, in which he said he had been inspired by St. Teresa to ask for a sister who would devote herself specially to his salvation, and to the salvation of his future flock. He promised always to remember this spiritual sister when saying Mass, and the choice fell upon me. Dear Mother, I cannot tell you how happy this made me. Such unlooked-for fulfillment of my desire awoke in my heart the joy of a child; it carried me back to those early days, when pleasures were so keen, that my heart seemed too small to contain them. Years had passed since I had tasted a like happiness, so fresh, so unfamiliar, as if forgotten chords had been stirred within me. Fully aware of my obligations, I set to work, and strove to redouble my fervour. Now and again I wrote to my new brother. Undoubtedly, it is by prayer and sacrifice that we can help our missionaries, but sometimes, when it pleases Our Lord to unite two souls for His Glory, He permits them to communicate their thoughts, and thus inspire each other to love God more. Of course an express command from those in authority is needed for this, otherwise, it seems to me, that such a correspondence would do more harm than good, if not to the missionary, at least to the Carmelite, whose manner of life tends to continual introversion. This exchange of letters, though rare, would occupy her mind uselessly; instead of uniting her to God, she would perhaps fancy she was doing wonders, when in reality, under cover of zeal, she was doing nothing but producing needless distraction.—And here am I, launched, not upon a distraction, but upon a dissertation equally superfluous. I shall never be able to correct myself of these lengthy digressions which must be so wearisome to you, dear Mother. Forgive me, should I offend again. Last year, at the end of May, it was your turn to give me my second brother, and when I represented that, having given all my merits to one future apostle, I feared they could not be given to another, you told me that obedience would double their value. In the depths of my heart I thought the same thing, and, since the zeal of a Carmelite ought to embrace the whole world, I hope, with God’s help, to be of use to even more than two missionaries. I pray for all, not forgetting our Priests at home, whose ministry is quite as difficult as that of the missionary preaching to the heathen. . . . In a word, I wish to be a true daughter of the Church, like our holy Mother St. Teresa, and pray for all the intentions of Christ’s Vicar. That is the one great aim of my life. But just as I should have had a special interest in my little brothers had they lived, and that, without neglecting the general interests of the Church, so now, I unite myself in a special way to the new brothers whom Jesus 176

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has given me. All that I possess is theirs also. God is too good to give by halves; He is so rich that He gives me all I ask for, even though I do not lose myself in lengthy enumerations. As I have two brothers and my little sisters, the novices, the days would be too short were I to ask in detail for the needs of each soul, and I fear I might forget something important. Simple souls cannot understand complicated methods, and, as I am one of their number, Our Lord has inspired me with a very simple way of fulfilling my obligations. One day, after Holy Communion, He made me understand these words of the Canticles: “Draw me: we will run after Thee to the odour of Thy ointments.”2 O my Jesus, there is no need to say: “In drawing me, draw also the souls that I love”: these words, “Draw me,” suffice. When a soul has let herself be taken captive by the inebriating odour of Thy perfumes, she cannot run alone; as a natural consequence of her attraction towards Thee, the souls of all those she loves are drawn in her train. Just as a torrent carries into the depths of the sea all that it meets on its way, so, my Jesus, does the soul who plunges into the shoreless ocean of Thy Love bring with it all its treasures. My treasures are the souls it has pleased thee to unite with mine; Thou hast confided them to me, and therefore I do not fear to use Thy own words, uttered by Thee on the last night that saw Thee still a traveller on this earth. Jesus, my Beloved! I know not when my exile will have an end. [. . .] Yea, Lord, thus would I repeat Thy words, before losing myself in Thy loving embrace. Perhaps it is daring, but, for a long time, hast thou not allowed me to be daring with Thee? Thou hast said to me, as the Prodigal’s father to his elder son: “All I have is thine.”3 And therefore I may use thy very own words to draw down favours from Our Heavenly Father on all who are dear to me. My God, Thou knowest that I have ever desired to love Thee alone. It has been my only ambition. Thy love has gone before me, even from the days of my childhood. It has grown with my growth, and now it is an abyss whose depths I cannot fathom. Love attracts love; mine darts towards Thee, and would fain make the abyss brim over, but alas! it is not even as a dewdrop in the ocean. To love Thee as Thou lovest me, I must make Thy Love mine own. Thus alone can I find rest. O my Jesus, it seems to me that Thou couldst not have overwhelmed a soul with more love than Thou hast poured out on mine, and that is why I dare ask Thee to love those Thou hast given me, even as Thou lovest me. If, in Heaven, I find that thou lovest them more than Thou lovest me, I shall rejoice, for I acknowledge that their deserts are greater than mine, but now, I can conceive no love more vast than that with which Thou hast favoured me, without any merit on my part. ... Dear Mother, what I have just written amazes me. I had no intention of writing it. When I said: “The words which Thou gavest me I have given unto them,” I was thinking only of my little sisters in the noviciate. I am not able to teach missionaries, and the words I wrote for them were from the prayer of Our Lord: “I do not ask 177

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that Thou shouldst take them out of the world; I pray also for them who through their word shall believe in Thee.” How could I forget those souls they are to win by their sufferings and exhortations? But I have not told you all my thoughts on this passage of the Sacred Canticles: “Draw me—we will run!” Our Lord has said: “No man can come to Me except the Father Who hath sent Me, draw him,”4 and later He tells us that whosoever seeks shall find, whosoever asks shall receive, that unto him that knocks it shall be opened, and He adds that whatever we ask the Father in His Name shall be given us. It was no doubt for this reason that, long before the birth of Our Lord, the Holy Spirit dictated these prophetic words: “Draw me—we will run!” By asking to be drawn, we desire an intimate union with the object of our love. If iron and fire were endowed with reason, and the iron could say: “Draw me!” would not that prove its desire to be identified with the fire to the point of sharing its substance? Well, this is precisely my prayer. I asked Jesus to draw me into the Fire of His love, and to unite me so closely to Himself that He may live and act in me. I feel that the more the fire of love consumes my heart, so much the more shall I say: “Draw me!” and the more also will souls who draw near me run swiftly in the sweet odour of the Beloved. Yes, they will run—we shall all run together, for souls that are on fire can never be at rest. They may indeed, like St. Mary Magdalen, sit at the feet of Jesus, listening to His sweet and burning words, but, though they seem to give Him nothing, they give much more than Martha, who busied herself about many things. It is not Martha’s work that Our Lord blames, but her over-solicitude; His Blessed Mother humbly occupied herself in the same kind of work when she prepared the meals for the Holy Family. All the Saints have understood this, especially those who have illumined the earth with the light of Christ’s teaching. Was it not from prayer that St. Paul, St. Augustine, St. Thomas Aquinas, St. John of the Cross, St. Teresa, and so many other friends of God drew that wonderful science which has enthralled the loftiest minds[?] “Give me a lever and a fulcrum on which to lean it,” said Archimedes, “and I will lift the world.” What he could not obtain because his request had only a material end, without reference to God, the Saints have obtained in all its fulness. They lean on God Almighty’s power itself and their lever is the prayer that inflames with love’s fire. With this lever they have raised the world—with this lever the Saints of the Church Militant still raise it, and will raise it to the end of time. Dear Mother, I have still to tell you what I understand by the sweet odour of the Beloved. As Our Lord is now in Heaven, I can only follow Him by the footprints He has left—footprints full of life, full of fragrance. I have only to open the Holy Gospels and at once I breathe the perfume of Jesus, and then I know which way to run; and it is not to the first place, but to the last, that I hasten. I leave the Pharisee to go up, and full of confidence I repeat the humble prayer of the Publican. Above all I follow Magdalen, for the amazing, rather I should say, the loving audacity, 178

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that delights the Heart of Jesus, has cast its spell upon mine. It is not because I have been preserved from mortal sin that I lift up my heart to God in trust and love. I feel that even had I on my conscience every crime one could commit, I should lose nothing of my confidence: my heart broken with sorrow, I would throw myself into the Arms of my Saviour. I know that He loves the Prodigal Son, I have heard His words to St. Mary Magdalen, to the woman taken in adultery, and to the woman of Samaria. No one could frighten me, for I know what to believe concerning His Mercy and His Love. And I know that all that multitude of sins would disappear in an instant, even as a drop of water cast into a flaming furnace. It is told in the Lives of the Fathers of the Desert how one of them converted a public sinner, whose evil deeds were the scandal of the whole country. This wicked woman, touched by grace, followed the Saint into the desert, there to perform rigorous penance. But on the first night of the journey, before even reaching the place of her retirement, the bonds that bound her to earth were broken by the vehemence of her loving sorrow. The holy man, at the same instant, saw her soul borne by Angels to the Bosom of God. This is a striking example of what I want to say, but these things cannot be expressed. Dearest Mother, if weak and imperfect souls like mine felt what I feel, none would despair of reaching the summit of the Mountain of Love, since Jesus does not ask for great deeds, but only for gratitude and self-surrender. [. . .] This is all Our Lord claims from us. He has need of our love—He has no need of our works. The same God, Who declares that He has no need to tell us if He be hungry, did not disdain to beg a little water from the Samaritan woman. He was athirst, but when He said: “Give me to drink,”5 He, the Creator of the Universe, asked for the love of His creature. He thirsted for love. And this thirst of Our Divine Lord was ever on the increase. Amongst the disciples of the world, He meets with nothing but indifference and ingratitude, and alas! among His own, how few hearts surrender themselves without reserve to the infinite tenderness of His Love. Happy are we who are privileged to understand the inmost secrets of Our Divine Spouse. If you, dear Mother, would but set down in writing all you know, what wonders could you not unfold! But, like Our Blessed Lady, you prefer to keep all these things in your heart.6 To me you say that “It is honourable to reveal and confess the world of God.”7 Yet you are right to keep silence, for no earthly words can convey the secrets of Heaven. As for me, in spite of all I have written, I have not as yet begun. I see so many beautiful horizons, such infinitely varied tints, that the palette of the Divine Painter will alone, after the darkness of this life, be able to supply me with the colours wherewith I may portray the wonders that my soul descries. Since, however, you have expressed a desire to penetrate into the hidden sanctuary of my heart, and to have in writing what was the most consoling dream of my life, I will end this story of my soul, by an act of obedience. If you will allow me, it is to Jesus I will address myself, for in this way I shall speak more easily. You may find my expressions somewhat exaggerated, but I assure you there is no exaggeration in my heart—there all is calm and peace. 179

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O my Jesus, who can say how tenderly and gently Thou dost lead my soul! The storm had raged there ever since Easter, the glorious feast of Thy triumph, until, in the month of May, there shone through the darkness of my night one bright ray of grace. . . . My mind dwelt on mysterious dreams sent sometimes to Thy favoured ones, and I thought how such a consolation was not to be mine—that for me, it was night, always the dark night. And in the midst of the storm I fell asleep. The following day, May 10, just at dawn, I dreamt that I was walking in a gallery alone with Our Mother. Suddenly, without knowing how they had entered, I perceived three Carmelites, in mantles and long veils, and I knew that they came from Heaven. “Ah!” I thought, “how glad I should be if I could but look on the face of one of these Carmelites!” And, as if my wish had been heard, I saw the tallest of the three Saints advance towards me. An inexpressible joy took possession of me as she raised her veil, and then covered me with it.8 [. . .] My happiness was too great for words. Many months have passed since I had this wonderful dream, and yet its memory is as fresh and delightful as ever. I can still picture the loving smiles of this holy Carmelite and feel her fond caresses. O Jesus! “Thou didst command the winds and the storm, and there came a great calm.”9 On waking, I realised that Heaven does indeed exist, and that this Heaven is peopled with souls who cherish me as their child, and this impression still remains with me—all the sweeter, because, up to that time, I had but little devotion to the Venerable Mother Anne of Jesus. I had never sought her help, and but rarely heard her name. And now I know and understand how constantly I was in her thoughts, and the knowledge adds to my love for her and for all the dear ones in my Father’s Home. O my Beloved! this was but the prelude of graces yet greater which Thou didst desire to heap upon me. Let me remind Thee of them to-day, and forgive my folly if I venture to tell Thee once more of my hopes, and my heart’s well nigh infinite longings—forgive me and grant my desire, that it may be well with my soul. To be Thy Spouse, O my Jesus, to be a daughter of Carmel, and by my union with Thee to be the mother of souls, should not all this content me? And yet other vocations make themselves felt—I feel called to the Priesthood and to the Apostolate—I would be a Martyr, a Doctor of the Church. I should like to accomplish the most heroic deeds—the spirit of the Crusader burns within me, and I long to die on the field of battle in defence of Holy Church. The vocation of a Priest! With what love, my Jesus, would I bear Thee in my hand, when my words brought Thee down from Heaven! With what love would I give Thee to souls! And yet, while longing to be a Priest, I admire and envy the humility of St. Francis of Assisi, and am drawn to imitate him by refusing the sublime dignity of the Priesthood. How reconcile these opposite tendencies?10 Like the Prophets and Doctors, I would be a light unto souls, I would travel to every land to preach Thy name, O my Beloved, and raise on heathen soil the glorious standard of Thy Cross. One mission alone would not satisfy my longings. I would spread the Gospel to the ends of the earth, even to the most distant isles. 180

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I would be a Missionary, not for a few years only, but, were it possible, from the beginning of the world till the consummation of time. Above all, I thirst for the Martyr’s crown. It was the desire of my earliest days, and the desire has deepened with the years passed in the Carmel’s narrow cell.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Teresa of Ávila (1515–1582). Song of Solomon 1.3. John 17. John 6.44 John 4.7. Luke 2.19. Tobias 12.7. The Venerable Mother Anne of Jesus (1545–1621). Matthew 8.26. St. Francis of Assisi, out of humility, refused to accept the sublime dignity of the Priesthood, and remained a Deacon until his death.

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24 ‘HOW THE M OHAM M EDANS KEEP THE FEST I VAL OF MOHURRIM ’, IN T HE W ORLD’ S STORY: A HISTORY OF THE WORL D IN STORY, S ONG AND A R T, VOL . II: INDI A, PERS I A, ME SOPOTAMIA, AND PALES TI NE Ed. Eva March Tappan (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1914), pp. 201–215

This anonymous account of the Festival of Muharram appears to have been written by a British observer in India. Muharran falls at the beginning of the Islamic New Year and is a festival of mourning. While most Muslims, and many non-Muslims, mark the festival, Shia and Sufi Muslims perform a specific set of mourning rituals that commemorate the death of the martyr Hussein ibn Ali during the Battle of Karbala. The account below describes these rituals in an Indian context at the beginning of the twentieth century. Religious festivals such as those described below allow the community to perform and express emotion; through practicing a particular set of actions, individuals (ideally at least) direct their feeling to specific religious ends. Such events can be significant in building community identity and its associated emotional norms, and in marking communities from each other. The account below was described by an ‘outsider’ who may not have had insight into all the nuances of the festival and its expected emotional resonances. At the same time, anthropological rich description of this type of occasion can highlight features of experience that participants consider mundane or everyday, and so not worth mentioning. The historian of the emotion therefore needs to read such texts carefully as evidence of emotional experience; nonetheless, as is suggested below, rituals can be profoundly significant in enabling religious feeling. … The month of Mohurrim—one of the Arabic months—is the anniversary of the death of two early leaders of “the faithful,” near relatives of Mohammed himself, 182

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Hassan and Hosein, and is observed by more than one half the Mohammedan population of India, including the court of Lucknow, as a period of deep humiliation and sorrowful remembrance;—by more than one half of the Mohammedan population, because, as every one knows, “the faithful” are divided into two great sects, the Shiahs and the Sunnis. The Turks are Sunnis, the Persians Shiahs— generally speaking, indeed, the western Mussulmans, from the Euphrates to the Atlantic, are Sunnis; the eastern, from the Euphrates to Java, are Shiahs. The Mohurrim, as the festival is called, scarcely ever passes over in India without contests between the two great parties—between those who regard the deaths of Hassan and Hosein as barbarous murders on the one side, that is the Shiahs, and those who, on the other, look upon them as having been usurpers, and lawfully put to death by the true head of “the faithful”—the reigning calif. These latter are the Sunnis. On the first day of the Mohurrim, the vast Mohammedan population appears to be suddenly snatched away from all interest and employment in the affairs of earth. The streets are deserted, every one is shut up in his house, mourning with his family. On the second, again, the streets are crowded; but with people in mourning attire, parading along the thoroughfares in funeral procession to the tombs set up here and there as tributes of respect to the memory of Hassan and Hosein. These tombs are representations of the mausoleum at Kerbela, or Neshed, on the banks of the Euphrates, in which the two chiefs were buried; and are either contained in an emanbarra belonging to a chief or in the house of some wealthy Mussulman. The tomb model, or tazia, belonging to the King of Oude, was made for His Majesty’s father in England; it was composed of green glass with gold mouldings, and was regarded as peculiarly holy. The emanbarra is usually erected for the purpose of celebrating the Mohurrim, and is not unfrequently intended, as was the king’s, for the final resting-place of the heads of the family to which it belongs. The representation of the tomb of Hassan and Hosein is placed, at the period of Mohurrim, against the wall facing Mecca, under a canopy, which consisted in the royal emanbarra of green velvet embroidered with gold. A pulpit is placed opposite, usually of the same material as the model, in which the reader of the service—the officiating priest, as we should call him—stands with his face to Mecca and his back to the tomb. This pulpit consists simply of a small raised platform, without railing or parapet of any kind, on which the reader sits or stands, as he may find most convenient. During the entire period of the Mohurrim, large wax lights, red and green, are kept burning round the tomb, and mourning assemblies are held in the emanbarra twice a day; those in the evening being by far the most attractive and the most generally attended. It was a fine thing to see the king, in his splendid mourning suit and with a crown on his head decorated with feathers from the bird of paradise, taking his place in front of the reader—his long train of native attendants coming in two by two afterward, with downcast faces and sorrowing mien, while the wax candles and the brilliant chandeliers threw an intense light upon the scene. It was interesting to observe the profound quiet which reigned, until broken by the reader 183

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of the service; the audience always awaiting the commencement of the reading or the recitation in the same humble and sorrowing attitude in which they entered. The lights are flaring upon the broad turbans; the glittering interior of the emanbarra, with chandeliers and wax tapers, its gilding and its banners, its fringes and its embroideries, is a blaze of light. The preacher is reciting an account of the death of the two chiefs, his keen black eyes glowing with animation as he proceeds—his audience, at first so solemn and so quietly sad, being gradually wound up to passionate bursts of grief. The orator groans aloud as he recapitulates the disastrous story; his audience is deeply moved. Tears trickle from the eyes of more than one bearded face, sobs and groans issue from the others. At length, as if with a sudden unpremeditated burst, but really at the proper part of the service, the audience utters forth the names “Hassan!” “Hosein!” in succession, beating the breast the while in cadence. At first somewhat gently and in a low tone are the names uttered, but afterward louder and more loud, until the whole emanbarra rings again with the excited, prolonged, piercing wail. For fully ten minutes does this burst of grief continue — the beating of the breast, the loud uttering of the names, the beating ever louder and more resounding, the utterance gradually increasing in shrillness and piercing energy; until, in a moment, all is hushed again, and silence, as of deep affliction, falls like a pall upon the assembly. But man requires refreshment after his labor, whether that labor consists in being whirled across a frozen country with a biting east wind in one’s teeth, at the rate of thirty miles an hour, or shouting “Hassan” and “Hosein” for ten minutes in uninterrupted succession and beating the breast with the thermometer at ninety. Sherbet is now handed round. The king and the members of his family indulge in that perfection of smoking,—the hookah,—while the others take a savory stimulant from their belts and proceed to chew it, until the reading of the service recommences, and the time rolls round again for renewed thumping, renewed shouting of “Hassan” and “Hosein,” and a renewed respite. At the conclusion a funeral dirge is chanted, called the moorseah; and being in the vernacular, this portion of the service is much prized by all, because comprehended by all. The moorseah ended, the whole assembly rises, and recapitulates simultaneously the names of all the true leaders of “the faithful,” ending with curses upon the usurping califs. Nor is it only in their visits to the emanbarra and joining in the service that the Shiah families express their sympathy with and sorrow for the sufferings of the lost chiefs. Every kind of luxury is put aside during this month of Mohurrim. The commonest and hardest charpoys, or a simple mat upon the floor, are substituted for the luxurious cushions and well-wadded mattresses on which they usually recline. Their fare is of the coarsest. Hot curries and savory pilaws are eschewed, and common barley bread, rice, and boiled peas are substituted. The usual ornaments are laid aside—a great deprivation of the ladies’ pleasures and comforts, for the contemplation of her jewelry is one of the most pleasing and constant employments of the Indian belle. In Lucknow they believe that they have the metal crest of the banner of Hosein (conveyed thither long ago by a poor pilgrim from the West), and the relic is 184

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regarded as peculiarly sacred. The building in which it is contained is called the Durgah; and thither the banners used in the Mohurrim are brought by thronging multitudes with great display upon the fifth day. The Durgah is fully five miles from the king’s palace—a magnificent building, a beautiful specimen of that style of architecture which Bishop Heber aptly calls the Oriental Gothic. In the center of this building the sacred crest is fixed aloft on a pole, the whole elevated upon a platform hung round with flags and emblematic devices. On the morning of the fifth day of Mohurrim, crowds of all ranks and classes of the people might be seen issuing from Lucknow to visit the Durgah, each little party bearing its own banners. On such occasions the Orientals love to display their wealth. The procession from the royal emanbarra was of course the most magnificent. Six or eight elephants with silver trappings first appeared, the men upon them bearing the banners to be blessed. A guard of soldiers accompanied the elephants. Then came a sort of chief mourner, bearing a black pole supporting two swords hung from a reversed bow. Then came the king himself and the male members of his family with his favorite moluvies. To these succeeded a charger called Dhull-dhull, the name of the horse Hosein rode when he lost his life. A white Arab of elegant proportions was usually employed for this purpose, whose reddened legs and sides (from which arrows, apparently buried in his body, projected) indicated the sufferings of both horse and rider. A turban in the Arabian style and a bow and quiver of arrows are fixed upon the saddle of Dhull-dhull; and a beautifully embroidered saddlecloth contrasts finely with the spotless white coat of the animal—the trappings all of solid gold. Attendants, gorgeously dressed, accompany the horse with chowries (for beating away flies) made of the yak’s tail. Following Dhull-dhull might be seen troops of the king’s servants, regiments of horse and foot, and a crowd of idlers. The banners are borne through the Durgah, presented to the sacred crest, and touched, and then taken out again at the opposite door to make room for others. All day long does this ceremony continue. Fresh crowds constantly arrive from Lucknow, some waiting till the afternoon in expectation of an easier journey, some delayed by accident. Fifty thousand banners so hallowed in the course of the day I have heard of as being no extraordinary number. From a burial to a wedding is often but a step in human life, and nowhere is that step shorter than in the East. The Mohurrim, a season of mourning and of grief—or woe, depression, and penance—contains also the representation of a wedding! This wedding is commemorated on the seventh day of the fast and is called Mayndieh. It is held in remembrance of the marriage of the favorite daughter of Hosein to her cousin Cossim on the very day that Hosein lost his life at Kerbela. The Mayndieh is a great wedding procession, which sets out at night; that of the inferior being directed toward the emanbarra of the superior—that of the nawab, or native prime minister, usually directing its course, for instance, to the emanbarra of the king. The emanbarra on this day was fitted up of course with extraordinary splendor, worthy to receive the expensive and gorgeous Mayndieh; and when the 185

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preparations were complete, the public were admitted to gaze upon the glittering though somewhat bizarre scene. They crowded the vast hall in thousands; some admiring the strangely varied collection of chandeliers, one of which alone, as I well remember, contained more than a hundred wax lights; others gazing upon the colored lamps—amber, blue, and green; others examining the glittering tomb of the emauns with its decorations, a huge lion on one side, and the royal arms, two fish embowed and respecting each other (as the heralds have it) upon the other. The streaming flags astonished the more lively; and the silver representations of the gates of Mecca, of the tent of Hosein, and of the tomb of Kerbela, all placed upon silver tables, gave ample food for thought and calculations to the more sordid; while the variety of arms and armor hung round the walls attracted the attention of the warriors. The whole of the decorations were rather showy and glittering than tasteful, exciting not so much admiration of the beauty of the scene as wonder at the display. But the roll of musketry without has already announced that the wedding procession is advancing—a wedding and a burial both performed in one day, and strangely commemorated together; for Cossim was buried the day he was married. The roll of musketry has sounded, and the king’s messengers come in, in great numbers, to clear the hall. They know their duty and what is expected of them; while the people, on their part, still linger around the objects of their contemplations. Hustling and friendly pushing will not do—the gazers have not yet feasted their eyes, and will not be hustled out. How London policemen would clear the place of the fierce-looking, well-bearded Mussulmans I do not know; but the king’s messengers and peons adopt a very summary method of procedure. They have three times announced with a loud voice that the place must be cleared; and still hundreds are gathered round the tombs and round the silver models, and many gaping admirers still contemplate the dazzling lights. There is no time to be lost, and messengers and peons proceed forthwith to enforce the departure of the more tardy. Their bamboos are flourished and well-thonged whips are produced. Blows resound upon the backs of the lagging gazers—good sturdy blows often, by no means a joke—and the recipients growl and move on. Not a loiterer, however, returns the salute—the messengers and peons have right on their side; this whipping and flagellation is the dustoor, the custom, and therefore must be right. Occasionally a more than ordinarily severe stroke elicits a sudden facing round of the well- bearded floggee; while the flogger still flourishes his cane or his whip, and looks the indignant sufferer full in the face. Donkeys and dogs, and even pigs (the most opprobrious of epithets to the ear of a Mussulman), they will call each other in irritated and rapid colloquy; but still the loiterer moves on toward the door, however loudly or fiercely he may retort in words, rubbing the outraged part the while manfully, and wagging his beard violently in indignant remonstrance; without any answering blow, however,—no angry retaliation comes from the hand or dagger. Custom has decided the matter, and custom and right are synonymous east of the Indus. And now all is ready for the wedding procession, which has been gradually drawing near. The emanbarra is silent again. The doors by which the people went 186

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out are closed, and the vast quadrangle in front, brilliantly lit up, is thrown open. The elephants and horses are left without; but the crowd of soldiers and bearers of presents and attendant musicians almost fill up the spacious square—the beautiful tessellated pavement is completely hidden. First, through the lines of soldiers filing to right and left, are borne in the wedding presents. Richly decorated attendants advance, carrying silver trays laden with sweetmeats and dried fruits, miniature beds of flowers, and garlands of sweet jasmine; while fireworks are let off as they enter the doors. A covered conveyance,—that of the bride,—the exterior of silver, such as is used by the highest of the female nobility, follows the wedding presents, accompanied by richly decorated attendants bearing torches. Then come the bands of music and other torchbearers; and with glad sounds the whole procession enters, and makes the round of the vast hall. The presents are deposited near the model of the tomb, in readiness to be taken to the place of burial a few days after. But scarcely has the richly decorated wedding procession passed into the emanbarra when another company, with downcast countenances and in mourning garb, draws nigh. The wedding and the death occurred on the same day, and so the funeral pomp follows hard upon the Mayndieh. The model of the tomb of Cossim, duly supported on a bier, is brought in by the attendants, and a sad mourning procession accompanies it. Sometimes even a horse, duly trained for the purpose, accompanies the party. It is regarded as the horse of Cossim, and bears his embroidered turban, his scimitar, his bow and arrows; while over it is held a royal umbrella, the emblem of sovereignty, and a gorgeously worked aftadah, or sun-symbol. The horse, if he be admitted to the interior, is one, of course, upon which dependence can be placed; and makes the round of the spacious hall with a solemnity and steadiness of gait befitting the occasion. So much for what goes on within, where the usual service succeeds to the processions. But there is a part of the ceremony proceeding without the courtyard infinitely more to the taste of the populace than the gloom and distress which characterize the principal actors in the funeral scene. Without the courtyard—for that is a place which may not be desecrated by the great unwashed—crowds have collected, of all ages and of both sexes; there is crushing and amusement, laughter and groaning and objurgation, as in all crowds. They are awaiting the distribution of coin, which always accompanies a wedding, and which is never omitted upon the occasion of the Mayndieh commemorating the marriage of Cossim and the daughter of Hosein. Small silver coins are scattered right and left by officers appointed for the purpose, with a lavish expenditure that would astonish the European. It is a part of the religion of the Mussulman to be liberal at such a time, and he cares not for the cost. It is on record at Lucknow that one of these Mohurrims cost a reigning nawab upward of three hundred thousand pounds; the costly nature of the processions and trappings—the munificence to the poor—the lavish display of expensive dresses and appointments, never used again, need not astonish us therefore. The wealth of 187

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the Mohammedan population of any part of India maybe safely estimated by the displays they make at Mohurrim. Were all this valuable mourning and embroidery, this display of silvering and gilding, to be retained from year to year to be used at each successive Mohurrim, the expense would be very different. Such, however, is not the case; what has once been used is not permitted to be used again. All is distributed among the poor and needy on the conclusion of the fast; so that the populace do not want incitement to make the commemoration of the Mohurrim as enthusiastic as possible. But we have not yet ended with the season of gloom and despondency. All these services at the emanbarras—all this consecration of banners and parading of wedding and funeral processions, is but preliminary to a final display of a still more imposing character. The chiefs lie dead—their deaths alone have been hitherto commemorated—that is, the deaths of Hassan and Hosein. The funeral and the burial have yet to come; for this funeral vast preparations have been made, while for the burial, an imitation of the burial-ground at Kerbela has been duly set apart by each family of large possessions ages before. These burial-grounds are all at a considerable distance from the walls of the town; and at the earliest dawn of day the populace issues forth in thousands, to witness or to take part in the various ceremonies which accompany the burial of the tomb-models, together with the food and other articles always put into a Mohammedan grave. As the funeral of Hosein was a military’ spectacle, so, on this occasion, is every endeavor made to give as military a character as possible to the display. Banners are exhibited, bands play, matchlocks and guns and pistols are fired off, shields are clashed together, and no sound is wanting which serves to bring before the mind’s eye the mimicry of military pageants. The poor man, with his little company, falls into the rear of the rich man’s larger assembly, that he may get on the faster thereby; for the crowds are dense, and the smaller bands have no little difficulty in making a way for themselves. Besides, some of those heretical Sunnis may be lying in wait, to attack or to interrupt; for they, miserable unbelievers! regard the whole display as worse than foolish, as almost impious, in fact. Each procession is marshaled much in the same order; first, the consecrated banners, carried aloft upon long poles, the bearers of the poles usually seated in an elephant howdah. The large displays will have two or three, or even six elephants so employed. A band of music, discoursing such dirges as their instruments will accomplish and custom prescribes, follows the elephants;—where all are playing, procession jostling procession, company pressing against company, each with its band, it may be easily imagined that the sounds produced are not of the most harmonious. The swordbearer—with the two guttering blades hung aloft upon a black pole, and suspending beneath a reversed bow, near its summit—comes after the band. He is supported by men on each side, who also bear aloft black poles, to which are attached streamers of long black unspun silk. Then comes the horse—Dhull-dhull—as on the former occasion of the consecration of the banners, attended by numerous servants. Two grooms hold the 188

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bridle, one upon either side; an officer marches at his head with the sun-symbol; another holds over him a royal umbrella; others accompany him with gilt and silvered staves, while running messengers follow with small triangular green banners. The chain armor, gold-embroidered turban, sword, and belt, are all fixed upon the saddle of Dhull-dhull; while often the owner of the animal and head of the procession walks after the horse as a sort of chief mourner. A walk of some miles amid such steaming crowds is by no means a pleasant journey. The bearers of incense, in gold and silver censers, succeed. The censers are suspended by means of chains made of the same material, and are thus waved to and fro, as the march proceeds—much as they are waved at the foot of the altar in Roman Catholic cathedrals on the Continent. The lahhaun, a sweet-smelling resin which is burnt in the censers, is probably the very frankincense so frequently mentioned in the Bible. The reader of the funeral service follows, usually attended by the proprietor of the tomb-model and his friends. Always barefooted, and often without any covering upon their heads, do these mourners follow in sad procession. It is no unusual thing to see their heads disfigured with chaff and dust—the more striking symbols of profound grief. The tomb-model, or tazia, is borne next; above which a canopy of green cloth or velvet, embroidered with gold or silver in the more showy processions, is spread, elevated upon poles and carried by several men stationed at the side. The model of Cossim’s tomb; the covered conveyance of his bride; the trays of wedding presents, with all the other accompaniments of the marriage procession, follow in order; and lastly, camels and elephants, bearing representations of the tent equipage and warlike train of Hosein, as he marched from Medina to Kerbela. These are all the parts of the procession proper; but, in addition to these, Oriental charity always demands a train of elephants, the howdahs on which are filled with confidential servants distributing bread and money among the poor. The bread so distributed is believed by the Mussulman ladies to possess certain peculiar virtues of its own, very superior to those of the ordinary staff of life. They will commission their servants to bring them a morsel of such, even though they may themselves distribute or cause to be distributed, large quantities! Its being given on the great day of the Mohurrim constitutes it holy, sacred, and peculiar. All along the march, as the various processions wind by different roads over the country, guns, pistols, rifles, and matchlocks are discharged, while the mourning cry, “Hassan!” “Hosein!” is heard at intervals swelling out from the mighty throng. The ordinary ceremony of burial is gone through on the procession reaching the appointed place—the model of the burial-ground at Kerbela. The tomb-model, with its various accompaniments of wedding trays and wedding presents,—fruits, flowers, and incense,—all are committed to the earth, a grave having been previously prepared for the purpose. It is at this part of the ceremony that the long pent-up animosity between the Shiahs and the Sunnis usually finds vent, and the mimic burial is often made the occasion of loss of life and bloody feuds between the contending factions. 189

Part 4 POLITICS AND LAW

Part 4 Politics and law

At the beginning of the nineteenth century, Europe was responding to revolution, both at home and in its empires. New ideas of governance and rights were transforming political life, increasing the significance of the nation as a concept, but also expanding to allow greater space in political life for a wider range of people. Individuals on the ground were exploring how to govern and the benefits of different forms of polity. If the nineteenth century placed a particular emphasis on the home and the domestic sphere as a haven from the public world, nonetheless this division was central to how people conceptualised political life and action. Emotion remained central to law and politics; ideas of human nature, and especially emotional control, shaped debates about legitimate authority. The display of emotion by individuals reflected on their political readiness and could be used as a form of social commentary. Persuasive rhetoric, designed to move the emotions of listeners and readers, remained central to political discourse. Patriotism as an emotion expanded, and devices like national anthems were created to encourage its production. Male and female emotions, not least within marriage and family life, were the moral core of the nation that political systems were to enable. Emotion remained critical to political and legal discourse during the nineteenth century and can be found in a broad array of print sources and private writings.

25 EDM UND BUR KE (1729–1797), REFL EC TI ONS OF THE REVOL UTION IN FRANCE A N D ON T HE PROCEEDI NGS I N C E R TAIN SOCIETIES I N LONDON (London: J. Dodsley, 1790), pp. 69–74, 102–107

Edmund Burke was an Irish politician and philosopher, who stood as a Member of Parliament at Westminster for the Whig party. His early writings were largely philosophical but latterly attended to contemporary political issues, not least reflecting on key events such as the French Revolution. He is now considered one of the early founders of British conservatism. Reflections of the Revolution argued that the French Revolution went too far in its removal of monarchical power and commitment to abstract principles, such as liberty and the rights of man. Rather he thought that government required feeling, not rationality without emotion, and needed to meet the practical needs of the people, not just make claims to rights without a course of action. Within the text, he provided a model of human nature where emotions were central, but required significant management, both by individuals and through firm governance by public authorities. Originally framed as a letter, the text deployed ‘sympathetic’ rhetoric throughout as part of its persuasive structure, which was an important factor in its popularity amongst the public and was subject to criticism by those who disagreed with him. The pamphlet was quickly followed by responses by Mary Wollstonecraft and Thomas Paine, who argued instead for the rights of man claimed in the French Revolution. … To observing men it must have appeared from the beginning, that the majority of the third estate, in conjunction with such a deputation from the clergy as I have described, whilst it pursued the destruction of the nobility, would inevitably become subservient to the worst designs of individuals in that class. In the spoil and humiliation of their own order these individuals would possess a sure fund for the pay of their new followers. To squander away the objects which made the happiness of their fellows would be to them no sacrifice at all. Turbulent, 195

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discontented men of quality, in proportion as they are puffed up with personal pride and arrogance, generally despise their own order. One of the first symptoms they discover of a selfish and mischievous ambition is a profligate disregard of a dignity which they partake with others. To be attached to the subdivision, to love the little platoon we belong to in society, is the first principle (the germ, as it were) of public affections. It is the first link in the series by which we proceed towards a love to our country and to mankind. The interest of that portion of social arrangement is a trust in the hands of all those who compose it; and as none but bad men would justify it in abuse, none but traitors would barter it away for their own personal advantage. There were, in the time of our civil troubles in England, (I do not know whether you have any such in your Assembly in France,) several persons, like the then Earl of Holland, who by themselves or their families had brought an odium on the throne by the prodigal dispensation of its bounties towards them, who afterwards joined in the rebellions arising from the discontents of which they were themselves the cause: men who helped to subvert that throne to which they owed, some of them, their existence, others all that power which they employed to ruin their benefactor. If any bounds are set to the rapacious demands of that sort of people, or that others are permitted to partake in the objects they would engross, revenge and envy soon fill up the craving void that is left in their avarice. Confounded by the complication of distempered passions, their reason is disturbed; their views become vast and perplexed; to others inexplicable; to themselves uncertain. They find, on all sides, bounds to their unprincipled ambition in any fixed order of things. But in the fog and haze of confusion all is enlarged, and appears without any limit. When men of rank sacrifice all ideas of dignity to an ambition without a distinct object, and work with low instruments and for low ends, the whole composition becomes low and base. Does not something like this now appear in France? Does it not produce something ignoble and inglorious: a kind of meanness in all the prevalent policy; a tendency in all that is done to lower along with individuals all the dignity and importance of the state? Other revolutions have been conducted by persons who, whilst they attempted or affected changes in the commonwealth, sanctified their ambition by advancing the dignity of the people whose peace they troubled. They had long views. They aimed at the rule, not at the destruction of their country. They were men of great civil and great military talents, and if the terror, the ornament of their age. They were not like Jew brokers contending with each other who could best remedy with fraudulent circulation and depreciated paper the wretchedness and ruin brought on their country by their degenerate councils. The compliment made to one of the great bad men of the old stamp (Cromwell) by his kinsman, a favourite poet of that time, shews what it was he proposed, and what indeed to a great degree he accomplished in the success of his ambition: “Still as you rise, the state, exalted too, Finds no distemper whilst ’tis changed by you; 196

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Changed like the world’s great scene, when without noise The rising sun night’s vulgar lights destroys.” These disturbers were not so much like men usurping power as asserting their natural place in society. Their rising was to illuminate and beautify the world. Their conquest over their competitors was by outshining them. The hand, that, like a destroying angel, smote the country, communicated to it the force and energy under which it suffered. I do not say (God forbid) I do not say, that the virtues of such men were to be taken as a balance to their crimes; but they were some corrective to their effects. Such was, as I said, our Cromwell. Such were your whole race of Guises, Condés, and Colignis. Such the Richlieus, who in more quiet times acted in the spirit of a civil war. Such, as better men, and in a less dubious cause, were your Henry the 4th, and your Sully, though nursed in civil confusions, and not wholly without some of their taint. It is a thing to be wondered at, to see how very soon France, when she had a moment to respire, recovered and emerged from the longest and most dreadful civil war that ever was known in any nation. Why? Because, among all their massacres, they had not slain the mind in their country. A conscious dignity, a noble pride, a generous sense of glory and emulation, was not extinguished. On the contrary, it was kindled and inflamed. The organs also of the state, however shattered, existed. All the prizes of honour and virtue, all the rewards, all the distinctions, remained. But your present confusion, like a palsy, has attacked the fountain of life itself. Every person in your country, in a situation to be actuated by a principle of honour, is disgraced and degraded, and can entertain no sensation of life, except in a mortified and humiliated indignation. But this generation will quickly pass away. The next generation of the nobility will resemble the artificers and clowns, and money-jobbers, usurers, and Jews, who will be always their fellows, sometimes their masters. Believe me, Sir, those who attempt to level never equalize. In all societies consisting of various descriptions of citizens, some description must be uppermost. The levellers, therefore, only change and pervert the natural order of things: they load the edifice of society by setting up in the air what the solidity of the structure requires to be on the ground. The associations of tailors and carpenters, of which the republic (of Paris, for instance) is composed, cannot be equal to the situation into which, by the worst of usurpations, an usurpation on the prerogatives of Nature, you attempt to force them. The chancellor of France, at the opening of the states, said, in a tone of oratorial flourish, that all occupations were honourable. If he meant only that no honest employment was disgraceful, he would not have gone beyond the truth. But in asserting that anything is honourable, we imply some distinction in its favour. The occupation of a hair-dresser, or of a working tallow-chandler, cannot be a matter of honour to any person,—to say nothing of a number of other more servile employments. Such descriptions of men ought not to suffer oppression from the state; but the state suffers oppression, if such as they, either individually or collectively, are permitted to rule. In this you think you are combating prejudice, but you are at war with Nature. 197

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I do not, my dear Sir, conceive you to be of that sophistical, captious spirit, or of that uncandid dullness, as to require, for every general observation or sentiment, an explicit detail of the correctives and exceptions which reason will presume to be included in all the general propositions which come from reasonable men. You do not imagine that I wish to confine power, authority, and distinction to blood and names and titles. No, Sir. There is no qualification for government but virtue and wisdom, actual or presumptive. Wherever they are actually found, they have, in whatever state, condition, profession, or trade, the passport of Heaven to human place and honour. Woe to the country which would madly and impiously reject the service of the talents and virtues, civil, military, or religious, that are given to grace and to serve it; and would condemn to obscurity everything formed to diffuse lustre and glory around a state! Woe to that country, too, that, passing into the opposite extreme, considers a low education, a mean, contracted view of things, a sordid, mercenary occupation, as a preferable title to command! Everything ought to be open,—but not indifferently to every man. No rotation, no appointment by lot, no mode of election operating in the spirit of sortition or rotation, can be generally good in a government conversant in extensive objects; because they have no tendency, direct or indirect, to select the man with a view to the duty, or to accommodate the one to the other. I do not hesitate to say that the road to eminence and power, from obscure condition, ought not to be made too easy, nor a thing too much of course. If rare merit be the rarest of all rare things, it ought to pass through some sort of probation. The temple of honour ought to be seated on an eminence. If it be opened through virtue, let it be remembered too, that virtue is never tried but by some difficulty, and some struggle. ... The Assembly, their organ, acts before them the farce of deliberation with as little decency as liberty. They act like the comedians of a fair, before a riotous audience; they act amidst the tumultuous cries of a mixed mob of ferocious men, and of women lost to shame, who, according to their insolent fancies, direct, control, applaud, explode them, and sometimes mix and take their seats amongst them,— domineering over them with a strange mixture of servile petulance and proud, presumptuous authority. As they have inverted order in all things, the gallery is in the place of the house. This assembly, which overthrows kings and kingdoms, has not even the physiognomy and aspect of a grave legislative body,—nec color imperii, nec frons erat ulla senatus.1 They have a power given to them, like that of the evil principle, to subvert and destroy; but none to construct, except such machines as may be fitted for further subversion and further destruction. Who is it that admires, and from the heart is attached to national representative assemblies, but must turn with horror and disgust from such a profane burlesque and abominable perversion of that sacred institute? Lovers of monarchy, lovers of republicks, must alike abhor it. The members of your Assembly must themselves groan under the tyranny of which they have all the shame, none of the direction, and little of the profit. I am sure many of the members who compose 198

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even the majority of that body must feel as I do, notwithstanding the applauses of the Revolution Society. Miserable king! miserable Assembly! How must that assembly be silently scandalized with those of their members who could call a day which seemed to blot the sun out of heaven “un beau jour”!2 How must they be inwardly indignant at hearing others who thought fit to declare to them, “that the vessel of the state would fly forward in her course towards regeneration with more speed than ever,” from the stiff gale of treason and murder which preceded our preacher’s triumph! What must they have felt, whilst, with outward patience and inward indignation, they heard of the slaughter of innocent gentlemen in their houses, that “the blood spilled was not the most pure”! What must they have felt, when they were besieged by complaints of disorders which shook their country to its foundations, at being compelled coolly to tell the complainants that they were under the protection of the law, and that they would address the king (the captive king) to cause the laws to be enforced for their protection; when the enslaved ministers of that captive king had formally notified to them that there were neither law nor authority nor power left to protect? What must they have felt at being obliged, as a felicitation on the present new year, to request their captive king to forget the stormy period of the last, on account of the great good which he was likely to produce to his people; to the complete attainment of which good they adjourned the practical demonstrations of their loyalty, assuring him of their obedience when he should no longer possess any authority to command? This address was made with much good-nature and affection, to be sure. But among the revolutions in France must be reckoned a considerable revolution in their ideas of politeness. In England we are said to learn manners at second-hand from your side of the water, and that we dress our behaviour in the frippery of France. If so, we are still in the old cut; and have not so far conformed to the new Parisian mode of good breeding as to think it quite in the most refined strain of delicate compliment (whether in condolence or congratulation) to say, to the most humiliated creature that crawls upon the earth, that great public benefits are derived from the murder of his servants, the attempted assassination of himself and of his wife, and the mortification, disgrace, and degradation that he has personally suffered. It is a topic of consolation which our ordinary of Newgate3 would be too humane to use to a criminal at the foot of the gallows. I should have thought that the hangman of Paris, now that he is liberalized by the vote of the National Assembly, and is allowed his rank and arms in the Herald’s College of the rights of men, would be too generous, too gallant a man, too full of the sense of his new dignity, to employ that cutting consolation to any of the persons whom the leze-nation4 might bring under the administration of his executive powers. A man is fallen indeed, when he is thus flattered. The anodyne draught of oblivion, thus drugged, is well calculated to preserve a galling wakefulness, and to feed the living ulcer of a corroding memory. Thus to administer the opiate potion of amnesty, powdered with all the ingredients of scorn and contempt, is to hold to his lips, instead of “the balm of hurt minds,” the cup of human misery full to the brim, and to force him to drink it to the dregs. 199

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Yielding to reasons at least as forcible as those which were so delicately urged in the compliment on the new year, the king of France will probably endeavour to forget these events and that compliment. But History, who keeps a durable record of all our acts, and exercises her awful censure over the proceedings of all sorts of sovereigns, will not forget either those events, or the era of this liberal refinement in the intercourse of mankind. History will record, that, on the morning of the 6th of October, 1789, the king and queen of France, after a day of confusion, alarm, dismay, and slaughter, lay down, under the pledged security of public faith, to indulge nature in a few hours of respite, and troubled, melancholy repose. From this sleep the queen was first startled by the voice of the sentinel at her door, who cried out to her to save herself by flight—that this was the last proof of fidelity he could give— that they were upon him, and he was dead. Instantly he was cut down. A band of cruel ruffians and assassins, reeking with his blood, rushed into the chamber of the queen, and pierced with a hundred strokes of bayonets and poniards the bed, from whence this persecuted woman had but just time to fly almost naked, and, through ways unknown to the murderers, had escaped to seek refuge at the feet of a king and husband not secure of his own life for a moment. This king, to say no more of him, and this queen, and their infant children (who once would have been the pride and hope of a great and generous people) were then forced to abandon the sanctuary of the most splendid palace in the world, which they left swimming in blood, polluted by massacre, and strewed with scattered limbs and mutilated carcasses. Thence they were conducted into the capital of their kingdom. Two had been selected from the unprovoked, unresisted, promiscuous slaughter which was made of the gentlemen of birth and family who composed the king’s body guard. These two gentlemen, with all the parade of an execution of justice, were cruelly and publicly dragged to the block, and beheaded in the great court of the palace. Their heads were stuck upon spears, and led the procession; whilst the royal captives who followed in the train were slowly moved along, amidst the horrid yells, and shrilling screams, and frantic dances, and infamous contumelies, and all the unutterable abominations of the furies of hell, in the abused shape of the vilest of women. After they had been made to taste, drop by drop, more than the bitterness of death, in the slow torture of a journey of twelve miles, protracted to six hours, they were, under a guard composed of those very soldiers who had thus conducted them through this famous triumph, lodged in one of the old palaces of Paris, now converted into a Bastile for kings. Is this a triumph to be consecrated at altars, to be commemorated with grateful thanksgiving, to be offered to the Divine Humanity with fervent prayer and enthusiastick ejaculation?—These Theban and Thracian orgies, acted in France, and applauded only in the Old Jewry, I assure you, kindle prophetic enthusiasm in the minds but of very few people in this kingdom: although a saint and apostle, who may have revelations of his own, and who has so completely vanquished all the mean superstitions of the heart, may incline to think it pious and decorous to compare it with the entrance into the world of the Prince of Peace, proclaimed in an holy temple by a venerable sage, and not long before not worse announced by the voice of angels to the quiet innocence of shepherds. 200

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Notes 1 No appearance of government, no pretence of a senate. 2 A beautiful day—6th October 1789. 3 The Chaplain of Newgate prison whose role was to provide spiritual comfort to those awaiting execution. 4 Treason against the nation.

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26 P OLITICAL TE ARS I N EIGHTEENTH-C ENTURY BRITIS H P RI NTS

The late eighteenth century marked the end of the culture of sensibility, where weeping had been closely associated with moral sentiment and a marker of character in men and women. Increasingly the public worried that tears might be inauthentic or artificial, a performance of emotions, while excessive emotion, and especially tears, started to threaten more stoic or military masculinities, identities that were increasingly critical as Europe went to war. The first two figures below are both satirical prints of the British politician Charles James Fox, leader of the Whig party, and known for his embrace of weeping as a manly mode. Figures 26.1 and 26.2 refers to a dispute in parliament in 1791 between Fox and Edmund Burke, previously his good friend, about the implications of the French Revolution for liberty, where Fox, when responding to Burke, burst into tears. Burke, as seen in Source 26.1 and with the white wig in Figure 26.2, argued that the Revolution had went too far, while Fox disagreed. During an argument on this topic – in front of the House of Commons – Burke suggested that he would put aside friendship to ensure the British constitution. Fox suggested that he had not lost a friend, but Burke replied that he had; Fox was unable to reply for some time, overcome by emotion, but later appealed to their inalienable friendship. It was a political event that split the Whig party, leading to its ultimate decline. Fox’s emotion was displayed in numerous prints. The weeping willow, in Figure 26.1, had only been introduced to Europe in the eighteenth century, and was closely associated with grief and mourning, especially loss. Here Fox was personified as this symbol of loss. Figure 26.2 depicts the event in the Commons. Figures 26.3 and 26.4 both refer to the events of the Irish Rebellion. Lord Edward Fitzgerald, Fox’s first cousin, had led an uprising in Ireland against the British state, inspired in part by revolutions in America and France. The ‘Foxites’, members of the Whig party especially associated with Fox’s agenda, were thought to be sympathetic to the United Irishmen who led the rebellion, partly due to their support of revolutionary principles and because of the familial connection between Fox and Fitzgerald. Figures 26.3 and 26.4 both show Fox and the Foxites weeping after the defeat of the rebellion. Figure 26.3 focuses on the loss of Fitzgerald, where the group mourn his defeat and distress; Figure 26.4 sees 202

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‘Paddy’, the personification of Ireland, trying to downplay his sedition, while the Foxites sympathise with his position. Tears in all of these prints become especially associated with Fox, his political party, and the revolutionary precepts that they were thought to support. Emotional display here becomes part of political narrative and commentary, deployed to identify groups and their ideas.

Figure 26.1 Political Weeping Willow, paper etching, British, 1791, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection. Note: for more details: https://collections.britishart.yale.edu/catalog/tms:43005.

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Figure 26.2 John Nixon (c.1760–1818), The Wrangling Friends or Opposition in Disorder, etching, British, 1791, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection. Note: for more details: https://collections.britishart.yale.edu/catalog/tms:42166.

Figure 26.3 Charles Ansell (1794–1881), Tears of Sensibility – Sympathy a Poem – Let’s all be Unhappy Together, paper etching, British, 1797, Yale Center for British Art. Note: for more details: https://collections.britishart.yale.edu/catalog/tms:42895.

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Figure 26.4 Sympathy or Paddy Bull’s – Appeal to Gentlemen of Feeling, etching, British, 1798, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection. Note: for more details: http://collections.britishart.yale.edu/vufind/Record/3630889.

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27 TO THE SPANISH ARM Y ON THE OC CASION OF THE ENTRANCE OF THE UCL ÉS PRI S ONERS TO MA D RID (AL EXÉRCI TO ES PAÑOL C ON M OT IVO DE L A ENTRADA DE LO S PRISIONEROS DE UCLÉS EN MADRID) (Valencia, 1809)

Napoleon Bonaparte invaded Spain in 1808, as part of his offensive to gain control of the Iberian peninsula. There he was met by Spanish, Portuguese and British forces. In 1809, the Spanish and French fought at the Battle of Uclés, around 100km southeast of Madrid. The French easily won, capturing half of the Spanish infantry, a total of 5,887 prisoners. Despite their victory, they sacked the town of Uclés, murdering 69 civilians, not least several monks. They were also reported to have treated the prisoners poorly, killing several who could not march with the army. The anonymous pamphlet below was a piece of propaganda produced after these events, published in Valencia that had significantly held off the French and so a site of Spanish victory. The text was designed both to lionise those captured at Uclés for their heroism, and to encourage others to engage in subsequent military action. Notably the pamphlet encouraged both men, ‘valiant soldiers’, to fight for their homeland and women to engage in the war effort as mothers of soldiers and as those who provided practical care for the troops in their cities. The pamphlet uses sentimental descriptions of dramatic gendered scenes of honour and bravery to induce patriotic feeling in the reader, and to encourage political action. The text here has been translated from the original Spanish. … Valiant Spanish soldiers: permit a good patriot to speak to you, and listen for a moment to the language of august truth.1 The conduct of your worthy comradesin-arms taken prisoner on the wretched journey to Uclés, with the exception of a few cowards, who only wear the dress of a soldier, imposes this sacred obligation 206

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on me. Their heroic and exemplary patriotism should not be hidden any longer: from mouth to mouth, and from town to town, it should spread throughout the Nation, to serve as a model, and for an admiring posterity to extol and praise. Driven from Uclés to Madrid, treated with all the inhumanity customary of an implacable enemy of the species infringing all the rules of war, suffering hunger, thirst, nudity, and a series of lamentable misfortunes, the Spanish prisoners never wavered in courage, nor hesitated in their generous and faithful resolution. Honorable victims, ever sworn to die or win for the liberty of their King, and the independence of the Homeland, they fulfilled their oath and were sacrificed for public safety. Housed in the Colosseum and in the Museo del Buen Retiro,2 and called to take an oath of obedience and fidelity to the intruder King, his constitution and laws, such were the expressions that were heard in their private conversations, and with which they condoled themselves during their most imminent risk: our life is not worth as much as the honor of dying for the Homeland; life is only a shadow, and the glorious death that we are going to make is a light that will survive the darkness of all time; fame will receive our last breath and posterity that observes our conduct from afar, and writes our actions, will make our name eternal; it is useless to wear the uniform of courage, and to be part of an exemplary brigade, if effeminacy, greed, an outrageous inaction or cowardice are capable of stifling the true feelings of honor and patriotism. The military man that at the slightest misfortune blames his leaders or the Nation, and does not want to serve it, is vile and unworthy of the Homeland that shelters him; it would be better if he had not been born. Valiant Spanish soldiers: it is with difficulty you could be offered another example, more moving or more patriotic, capable of raising your souls to a noble and holy emulation. The generous people of Madrid, who filled their days feeding their brothers, comforting them and serving their meat, together with the gratitude and courage of the prisoners who were more enthusiastic than ever for their beloved Fernando,3 and for their common cause, and who in the midst of the stink and misery they were in, could only be heard saying: “Long live Spain, and death to the French”, formed a scene too interesting for any but the least sensible Spaniard to resist shedding tears of consolation. Finally, the appointed time for the oath arrived. Ah! What deeds and what words! What traits of patriotism, not heard in antiquity! A Good Spanish mother and heroine exhorted her son in these terms: “Unhappy if you were to forget that the blood that circulates through your veins is patrimony of the Homeland. I will curse even the moment I gave birth to you, if you swear to that coxcomb and imposter; remember the glorious actions with which your ancestors added new achievements to their heraldry: unhappy and unfortunate, I repeat . . .” “No, my mother, no,” the son interrupted her. “Enjoy Your Grace, those precious tears, because you will have the consolation of having given the world a worthy citizen. I know that I have another mother in the Homeland where I was born, and that I must sacrifice everything as a gift. I have sworn to serve King Ferdinand, and I would lose a thousand lives if I had them. Lastly, I know that the true military must not seek another reward than the love of his duty, and that mine today is to follow the fate of a prisoner. Maybe very soon 207

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you will know, Your Grace, of my death, but that day must be for, Your Grace, a pleasure; notable day, may you remember it frequently with my dear brothers, so that far from crying my loss and feeling sorry for me, they celebrate my patriotism and imitate me.” A certain husband said aloud to his wife: “Goodbye forever, my dear wife. Don’t cry for my absence. For there is no military man of honor, who does not envy my luck. Tomorrow perhaps I will leave for France. Like the last soldier, treated with an unprecedented barbarity, and exposed to evils and infinite evils, I will gladly suffer death itself. With it, I will reciprocate the hopes of the Fatherland; I will fill the sacred duty of citizen; I will accomplish the solemnity of the vows that I have inviolably held to serve under Fernando’s flags: in a word, I will do what I must; to die well in combat, or to follow the luck of prisoner, this is my obligation. Don’t cry, I repeat, for me. Glory that your husband is not the shame of the state. Take care of the education of my children, and tell them that with my death I wanted to give them a sublime lesson. Tell them frequently: your father, enlisted in the service of the Fatherland, died without other witnesses to his worth than his own conscience; he died making himself agreeable to the eyes of his Prince and his Nation; he died ensuring the nation’s eternal duration, and leaving his wife and children covered with honor and glory.” Several Colonels, Lieutenant Colonels and Officers of higher rank, despite their advanced ages of 60 and 70 years old, held the same firmness of character and equal patriotism. They cheered the troops as they could, so that they would not take an oath of obedience and fidelity to an adventurer King, who wanted to occupy Fernando’s throne atop mountains of bodies and the ruins of religion. “Probe your soul,” they told them, “and if unfortunately it tells you otherwise, be ashamed of yourselves. Let our firm and invariable resolution, despite our infirm old age, of dying for the Prince and for the Nation, to whom we have sworn, and to whom we only belong, serve as an example. Do not be intimidated, do not fail in courage. Maybe tomorrow we shall go out on a French rope, and the people of Madrid will surround us with cheers and applause, as if we were victorious, covered with cedars and willow trees.” Not less recommended and worthy of eternal memory is the conduct of a young military man, whose uncle, also military, but a spurious Spanish who served the perfidious enemy, catechized in these terms: “Fanatic: the evils and misfortunes you have just suffered, have they not been yet enough to disappoint you, and to expose the error in which you have lived until this point? What do you want; what are you waiting for?” “To suffer new misfortunes, and death itself if necessary,” replied the nephew, “in defence of the just cause that upholds the Nation. Maybe the day of revenge is not too far away, and then, ah! Then! What satisfaction for me, yes, My Grace, falls into my hands! My Grace. He is not my uncle, nor do I want to be his nephew.” Finally, the unhappy soldier prostrated on the bed of pain and misery, who could barely speak, but asked the many Spaniards who came to speak to him: “Do you know, My Grace, if they will make us swear to that supposed King? Ah! We do 208

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not this want in any way. Let us share our fate with our legitimate Sovereign, the only King of Spain Fernando Septimo, the Desired.” Yes, valiant Spanish soldiers: such has been the exemplary conduct of your worthy companions, already numbered amongst the heroes of your Homeland. Great souls, whose origin was unknown but who leave an exact impression of true honour for all time to come! The prisoners of Uclés sacrificed a mortal life to become immortal; and in the same way we remember Marcelo4 today, as if he had just expired, posterity will speak with respect and with admiration of their magnanimity and heroism. The world, even if corrupted, will praise their actions; and the noble and enlightened Homeland will present them at all times as a model for others. Yes: the Fatherland would say, these are my favorite children, for whom the nobility was only an honorable title to distinguish themselves from the others with noble thoughts and heroic deeds; these are my children, who only counted their days for the pleasure of sacrificing them for their Prince and for his Nation; these are my children, who gave value to their actions, not with simple exteriorities, but throwing themselves into the trench, and putting themselves in the hands of the enemy, with no hope other than death; these are my children, who have put aside themselves, they had no other ambition than to fulfill the sacred duty of worthy citizens, of brave and honest military men; these are my children, finally, who are intimately convinced that the Homeland is nothing but a great family, they honourably met my hopes, paying with their blood what the magistrate, the farmer, the artisan and the other members of the state pay with their sleeplessness, sweat and labour. Valiant Spanish soldiers: do you want to occupy a place of distinction alongside your worthy companions? Be faithful imitators of their deeds. When the King commands, the vassal obeys: when the Homeland has afflictions, we must all alleviate and succour it. This is the portrait of a wise government, and the compendium of your obligations. War and hate eternal to the vile Corsican and his satellites. Die before you succumb and debase yourself. War, war. Love, fidelity and obedience to the King and to the Homeland where you were born, and that you were born for: this is your motto. Courage and patriotism: this is your reward, and the reward of your fatigue and service.

Notes 1 2 3 4

Translated by Katie Barclay, with thanks to François Soyer for advice. Buen Retiro palace complex in Madrid was used as barracks by the French troops. Fernando VII, King of Spain (1784–1833). Marcus Claudius Marcellus (c.270–208BC), Roman military leader.

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28 FRANCIS O DE GOYA Y LUCIENTES (174 6 – 1 8 2 8 ) , FOR HAVING BEEN BORN EL SEWHERE

Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes was a Spanish romantic painter and printmaker. For Having Been Born Elsewhere was an ink on paper sketch that formed part of an album that he made during the peninsular war, and afterwards during the absolutist monarchy of Ferdinand VII (1784–1833). Goya was considered a significant figure of the Spanish Enlightenment and many of his works critique the exercise of power and explore questions of fairness and justice, especially wishing to counter superstition and religion with rationality. These themes expanded under the rule of Ferdinand VII, where Goya painted a series of deeply emotive works on the atrocities of war. For Having Been Born Elsewhere was one of a series of works that explored the injustice of the Spanish inquisition, the religious tribunal that monitored spiritual life and exercised discipline on the laity. While the inquisition nominally focused on those who committed heresy, Goya suggested that their targets were chosen due to the underlying racism, xenophobia or political intolerance of clerics. As the title of the work suggests, Goya suggests the victim here was targeted as a foreigner, rather than for misbelief; it sat alongside others such as For Having Jewish Ancestry and For Being a Liberal. The image shows a victim of the inquisition in paper gown and hat, ready for public humiliation, penance and punishment. Her face is covered with her hands and her back turned to the viewer, suggestive of her shame and distress. The work uses this emotion to question the politics that led to her treatment.

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Figure 28.1 Franciso de Goya y Lucientes (1746–1828), For Having Been Born Elsewhere, Spanish, watercolour, 1810–1811, Museo de Prado. Note: for more details: www.museodelprado.es/en/the-collection/art-work/for-having-beenbornelsewhere-album-c-85/472099e4–2e96–427b-86f7-fd80ff209f37.

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29 POM PEE VALENTI N VASTEY (1781–1820), AN ES S AY ON THE C A USES OF T HE RE VOLUTI ON A ND CIVIL WARS OF HAYTI Trans. W.H. M.B. (Exeter, 1823), pp. 1–14

Pompée Valentin Vastey was a Haitian writer and politician, the child of a white French father and a black Haitian mother. He fought with the army of François Toussaint L’Ouverture (1743–1809), the Haitian enslaved person who led a revolt that ultimately ended slavery in Haiti by 1795, and worked as secretary and tutor to the children of King Henri Christophe (1767–1820), the revolutionary leader and only monarch of Haiti. Vastey became known for historical and political writings of Haiti under Christophe, and his work is considered to capture the thinking of the political elite during his rule. Vastey was murdered with the fall of the kingdom in 1820. An Essay on the Causes of the Revolution, here in English translation from the original French, was part of a pamphlet war in France that corresponded with an argument between the leaders of North and South Haiti. A dispute between Christophe and Alexandre Sabès Pétion (1770–1818) about the preferred political form for Haiti – monarchy versus democracy – had led the country to be split into two parts, with Christophe ruling as monarch in the North, and Pétion leading a democracy in the South. Both sides remained critical of the actions of the other, and in the pamphlet below, part of a series, Vastey attempts to justify the actions of Christophe, to vilify Pétion and his political circle, and to persuade readers of their political position. If Pétion is located as an internal threat to Haiti, the colonists – the previous slave owning class – are framed as the real danger, seeking to overthrow the Haitian revolutionary project of racial equality. Emotion in this text is understood to evidence character and political belief, and is deployed for rhetorical effect to persuade the reader of the author’s strength of feeling and legitimate political claims. … Political discussions have always been repugnant to our feelings and our principles. We have always studiously avoided them through the fear of becoming the aggressors; and, if we have been tempted at times to enter the lists of controversy, 212

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it has always been from the impulse of necessity and sorely against our inclination. But, when summoned by the call of duty to the defence of our country, our cause and our rights, we have never hesitated a moment to mount the breach and combat with our utmost ability the enemies of our Government, under whatever colour or disguise they presented themselves. The colonial hydra is again in motion. Again have its roarings, traversing the wide expanse of ocean which divides us, echoed in our ears. Another Antæus, it multiplies itself, assails us under every possible variety of form, and seeks, by sowing dissensions amongst ourselves, to render us the unsuspecting instruments of its own perfidious views, and to employ our own hands to plunge the suicidal dagger into our bosoms. In aid of this favourite design it employs against us its accustomed weapons of fraud, of calumny, and of falsehood: those never-failing resources of the weak, the cowardly and the wicked: to which we oppose those of truth, of justice, and of reason; weapons which it is the peculiar privilege of the brave and upright to wield, and which, inspiring us with the courage and skill of an Hercules, will enable us to strangle in their birth the hideous projects of this artful and perfidious monster. In my last work entitled “Reflexions Politiques, &c” which has reached France, I have, from facts within my own knowledge, refuted Mr. Borgne de Boigne’s “New Plan of Colonization for St. Domingo, with the formation of a Commercial Company for the restoration of the intercourse between France and that Island.” After combatting all the abjections and even the cavils urged by this writer against the recognition of our independence, I have established in the most incontestible manner, the justice of our rights and the validity of our claims. The refutation of the falsehoods and mistatements advanced by Mr. le Borgne de Boigne with respect to our political situation, has led to a developement of the nature and principles of the Haytian Government, and an exposition, in conformity with the Royal Declaration of the 20th of November, 18l6, of the fixed and unalterable line of policy determined upon with respect to France, by his Haytian Majesty. Satisfied that I had explained myself sufficiently in that work, I little expected to see not only the objections which I had already confuted, but others even still less tenable, marshalled anew against me. But it is not information which our enemies desire, since their knowledge already exceeds their wishes. It is not a fuller acquaintance with our internal situation and resources, for this they abundantly possess. Their real object is to catch us in the new toils which they have spread for us: to lure us from an adherence to our maxims of sound policy, and thus either to reconduct us insensibly and step by step into the bonds of slavery, or to overwhelm us with inevitable destruction. This point gained, nothing more would be left for them to desire. Our life then must be passed in ceaseless conflict with the planters, for we shall ever be inaccessible alike to their artifices, their blandishments or their threats: and never—no, never! shall they tempt us to swerve from the immoveable determination proclaimed in our motto “INDEPENDENCE OR DEATH,” a determination consecrated by our laws, and cemented by our blood. Behold! Tyrants, this is the ceaseless object of 213

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our vows—the unalterable resolution of our hearts! From the course of events in Europe, however, and from the triumph of liberal sentiments so loudly proclaimed, we were led to hope that the Government of France, no longer ignorant of our real situation, would have renounced with candour and sincerity pretensions equally unjust and chimerical, and have adopted in their room sentiments more in unison with the general interests in France. We had flattered ourselves that, convinced of their folly and extravagance, the French Government would no longer have permitted the intrigues and clamours of the Ex-Colonists to sway its councils. Nor was the aspect of affairs less promising in the south-west of Hayti, than in France. Pétion, the ambitious chieftain, who had kindled the flames of civil discord in the bosom of his afflicted country, died of inanition, of remorse, and grief: during his short illness he refused to take those remedies and the sustenance which his recovery demanded: he was mortified at beholding the odious plots he had concerted with the Dauxion Lavaysses,1 the Colombels,2 and the Milcents,3 against his country, wholly detected: ashamed to see himself compelled to retract the disgraceful offers he had made of paying tribute to France and to the ExColonists; convicted of high treason, and of being the accomplice of a spy; proved by fifteen heads of accusation, grounded upon legal and authentic documents bearing his own signature, to have conspired against the liberty and independence of the Haytian people; disgraced in the eyes both of his countrymen and strangers; sick in a word of a loathsome existence, and torn by remorse, Pétion went down into the tomb, without having either the boldness or the ability to clear himself from so horrible a charge. Thus fell the hero, the legislator, and the benefactor of the Republic, stigmatized with the charge of treason against his country, and against humanity: his accomplices decreed him no less than the honours of an apotheosis. Thus also Marat,4 surnamed The Friend of the People! received the honours of the Pantheon: but when the day of reason and of truth returned, his impure remains were thrown into the slaughter-house. Let us hope that the day of reason and of truth will arise for this traitor, and that justice will be done to him also. I am sorry, in the mean time, to disturb his ashes: but it is necessary to give every one his due, and treat him according to his actions. In discharging this imperative duty, I still feel that I pay but a feeble tribute to his memory. After the death of this traitor, who appeared to have carried with him, in his last moments, the spirit of evil, of discord, and of civil war, our Government imagined the moment was favorable for bringing back and directing the national spirit to the same end, to an unity of interests and wishes. Yet, though our offers of peace, of union, and of reconciliation were not received, according to our reasonable expectations, our august and well beloved Sovereign was not the less satisfied with having followed the impulse of his own heart, and again used his utmost efforts to promote the general welfare and true interests of the nation. His Majesty waits till time and reflection enable the more respectable and intelligent inhabitants of this part of Hayti, to appreciate the magnanimity of his overtures, and the generosity of his sentiments. 214

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The voice of reason being unable as yet to prevail over that of the passions, his Majesty directed his care and attention to the internal situation of his dominions, and employed himself in devising means for ameliorating and improving the state of society. With this view, Public Instruction, the foundation of schools and academies, with their discipline and police; the improvement of agriculture and the increase of landed proprietors, with the restoration of good morals by the respect paid to marriage, and the encouragement given to it, have been the ceaseless objects of his Majesty’s solicitude. During the kind of truce which has existed between all parties, the paper war, the only one we have waged for a length of time, had ceased: our foes internal, as well as external, appeared sunk in the most profound repose, and we no longer assailed by our writings men who seemed, by their silence, to acknowledge themselves vanquished. We employed our inexperienced pens on objects which were more agreeable and better suited to our tastes and our inclinations, in the cultivation of the literature and science which adorn life and form its solace. But at that time the Congress of Aix la Chapelle had not taken place; the army of occupation had not yet evacuated France. The period for the Ex-Colonists to renew their intrigues had not yet arrived. No intelligence which could awaken the smallest suspicion of the continued existence of the most deadly hatred against us had been received from Port-au-Prince. We felicitated ourselves on the prevalence of an amicable disposition. We imagined that the private interests of the adherents of Pétion, and respect for themselves, had suggested the wisdom of silence, and prevented their exposing themselves in the eyes of the world, as they had hitherto done. We conceived they would have been satisfied of the impossibility of realizing the guilty projects of their leader by reducing the Blacks to slavery under the dominion of France; and that, foiled in their diabolical attempts they would have returned to better principles. We thought that men like these, branded with the crime of treason not only against their country, but against humanity itself, would for their own sakes, have feared to re-exhibit themselves upon the great theatre of the world, and that they never would have the assurance to stir up the sink of crime into which their perfidy had plunged them; certain that in so doing they could not fail to awaken the most hateful recollections, and expose the deformity of their proceedings in the strongest light. Strange mistake under which we laboured! Was there then no human consideration capable of checking these senseless—these obstinate and wicked men. Not even their own selfish interests? But what do I pay? Honour! Glory! Patriotism! Nothing—nothing was capable of influencing them!!! Whilst we felt secure, these men were silently plotting fresh treasons against Hayti—against their brethren and fellow citizens. They resumed the broken thread of the farmer confederacy, for the purpose of pursuing it to its accomplishment. Colombel and Milcent formed a conspiracy at Port-au-Prince, in concert with the ExColonists in France. They there fabricated and disseminated, by means of the press, the grossest libels and the lowest and most atrocious calumnies against the Haytian character, and exerted their utmost ingenuity to injure the generous hero who had just been speaking to them of peace, union, harmony, and the common good; he, in 215

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short, who had shewn, in all circumstances in which the safety of his country was menaced, that he possessed the skill, the power and the inclination, to maintain her rights and defend her cause. O! you who have suffered yourselves to be prejudiced by reading these disgusting pamphlets, and have perhaps lent an attentive ear to them, consider for a moment with me what cause could have provoked such falsehoods and abuse, what motives could have given birth to them, to rekindle the wrath, the fury and the malice, of these traitors against the great man who is their object. A generous and conciliatory overture— the language of peace, union, and common interests!— such are the objects, the motives and the causes, of these vituperations. In fact, it is in the union of the Haytians, in the paternal harmony which ought to prevail among men who have the same interests, and the same cause to maintain, that real danger threatens traitors sold to the Ex-Colonists; and never can we give them higher offence, or injure them more deeply, that by speaking to them of the re-union and reconciliation of the great Haytian family. We can never touch them in a tenderer or more formidable spot. But let them do what they may, let them exert themselves never so much to procrastinate this happy moment, sooner or later this reconciliation will take place, and their countrymen and brethren will, in spite of them, clasp each other in a fraternal embrace, never again to be disunited. Whilst we were holding out the olive-branch of peace to our brethren and fellow citizens of the southwest, Colombel, Milcent and the Ex-Colonists, were actively engaged in counteracting our efforts, and endeavouring, by their publications, to goad the Haytians anew to conflict and to carnage: and the French Journals, their faithful echoes, responded to their shouts of war. According to them, Haytian blood was streaming afresh, in the plains of Cibert and of Santo, where four thousand men had fallen on either side; (being so much gain to the Ex-Colonists). Unfortunately however for them, this dreadful expenditure of human life had no existence but in their disordered fancy and in their publications. As for us Savages of the North! we were in the most perfect tranquility, celebrating marriages, and giving fêtes and entertainments in our good town of SANS SOUCI at the very time that our enemies were circulating with the most malignant activity the grossest falsehoods and libels against us, throughout France and other parts of Europe; spreading wide their baleful poison, injuring us in public opinion, filling the hearts of the philanthropic with grief and dismay, and elating our implacable foes with imaginary triumphs, and fallacious hopes. We were far from entertaining the most remote suspicion of such vile plots, of so base a conspiracy against us. Meanwhile, besides the descriptions of the bloody contests in which we were represented as engaged, the French Journals were filled from time to time with the most outrageous articles against the personal character of our revered Monarch. These were copied word for word from pamphlets manufactured at Port-auPrince, the French Editors artfully and malignantly taking the precaution to insert them in their journals without signature, or any intimation of their origin: fearing lest by betraying the cloven-hoof they should provoke us to a reply: insomuch 216

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that we paid them no manner of regard. Such indeed was the atrocious character of their impostures and the extravagance of their facts that the King himself, as they were read to him, laughed at the madness and folly of the French news writers: and so fully were we satisfied that these productions, which had not even a shadow of common sense or probability, and whose veracity was hardly on a par with the Arabian Nights Entertainments, were the hallucinations of French novelists in the pay of the Ex-Colonists, that instead of replying, we held them in the most sovereign contempt. However agreeable this conduct on our part was to the suggestions of reason, it proved nevertheless injurious to us for the moment in other countries, where our silence was misconstrued; our enemies profiting by the temporary credit which it gave to their calumnies. These vile fabrications were hailed with joy by the ExColonists, who hastened, by dispersing them, to swell the ranks of their partizans, and add to the number of our foes. Those who were already biassed against us had their prejudices strengthened, while others of good intentions, but who were unacquainted with the true posture of our affairs, allowed themselves to be prejudiced against us. Even our very friends received an unfavourable impression. Hence it became of importance to us to break silence with a view to rectify public opinion (which had been misled by these falsehoods) and to refute and confound our calumniators. This is no longer a difficult task for us to accomplish, especially now that we are apprised by whom the blow has been struck. For who could have imagined that these pamphlets, composed and printed at Portau-Prince, should first reach us by way of Paris!!! Colombel and Milcent, those traitors in the pay of the Ex-Colonists, have employed a circuit of two thousand leagues to transmit to us their infamous productions; and to fill up the measure of their enormities, they would summon us before a tribunal of their accomplices; but, while we accept their challenge, we protest against this hostile tribunal, which we will not consent to make the umpire between us. We make our appeal to the tribunal of the world at large, and to the judgment of the virtuous and enlightened of every country— Such are the powerful motives which have led me to undertake my present task. The perfidious machinations of the enemies of Hayti have led in the first place to— Fresh remarks upon the political structure of our Government, of which they have attacked the nature and the monarchical principle, in order to compare it with its opposite, the Republican form of Government: From an attack upon the Form of our Government, they have proceeded in the second place to the most libellous invectives against the person and character of the Sovereign who holds the reins: these attacks having a close and natural connection, the one arising out of the other: They have in the third place strengthened the system of duplicity and falsehood adopted by the Ex-Colonists, who mislead and pervert anew the opinion of the public in France; and they have given birth to fresh objections, and fresh pretentions still more erroneous and ridiculous than those which have preceded them. 217

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From a careful examination of these various opinions, as they appear in the different documents now lying before me, I am convinced that the great majority of persons in France labour under the greatest delusion with respect to the true situation of affairs in Hayti, owing to the want of other grounds for forming their judgment than the false reports, the calumnious and sophistical reasonings, of the Ex-Colonists and their adherents. Satisfied that a continuance of such errors must be highly prejudicial to the best interests of both countries, I felt that I should perform an eminent service not only to France and Hayti, but also to humanity at large, by rectifying public opinion and reinstating truth in her just rights. Moreover, men, estimable in every point of view notwithstanding their differing from us in political feelings and interests, might have been themselves deceived and have led others into error, and thus unintentionally do us the greatest injury. Hence then it becomes imperative upon us to undeceive both the one and the other. My only regret is, that the shortness of my time, and the weakness resulting from an afflicting indisposition, have prevented me from executing my task as I could have desired, and compelled me to sue to my readers for the utmost latitude of their indulgence.

Notes 1 2 3 4

Jean-François Dauxion-Lavaysse (c.1770–c.1830). Noël Colombel (1786–1823). Jules Solime Milscent (1778–1842). Jean-Paul Marat (1743–1793).

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30 C HA RLES P HILIP S (1 7 8 7 – 1 8 5 9 ) , ‘SPE E CH OF M R. P HILI PS I N THE C ASE OF GUTHRIE V. STERNE, DE L IVERED IN THE COURT OF C OM M ON PLEAS , DUBLI N’ , THE SPEECHES OF CHARLES PHIL IPS, ES Q (London, W. Simkin, 1822), pp. 90–108

Charles Philips was an Irish barrister, who practised both in Ireland and England, and was renowned for his sentimental rhetoric. Sometimes criticised for being too emotional in his style, his speeches were nonetheless remarkably popular, being reprinted regularly in the nineteenth century as a model of style. The case of Guthrie v. Sterne was a criminal conversation case tried in Dublin, where John Guthrie sought compensation from William Sterne for eloping with the former’s wife. A criminal conversation case was a civil suit designed to alleviate the suffering experienced by a wronged husband, when his wife was seduced from his company. In this case, Guthrie sought £10,000 in compensation. The speech below was Philip’s opening to the jury on the case, which set out the case and what was at stake; it was followed by the witnesses that supported Guthrie’s case. It was therefore important for Philip’s to create a compelling narrative that engaged the jury and that provided a narrative account of events to help them understand what happened. Like in many other of his speeches, and as was typical of lawyers of the period, he highlighted the significance of the case by arguing for the importance of morality and family life not only for individuals but to the well-being of the nation. The home and family he describes here is depicted within the sentimental imaginary of the era, reinforcing cultural ideals of the household as a domestic and happy haven. … My Lord and Gentlemen, IN this case I am of counsel for the plaintiff, who has deputed me, with the kind concession of my much more efficient colleagues, to detail to you the story of 219

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his misfortunes. In the course of a long friendship which has existed between us, originating in mutual pursuits, and cemented by our mutual attachments, never, until this instant, did I feel any thing but pleasure in the claims which it created, or the duty which it imposed. In selecting me, however, from this bright array of learning and of eloquence, I cannot help being pained at the kindness of a partiality which forgets its interest in the exercise of its affection, and confides the task of practised wisdom to the uncertain guidance of youth and inexperience. He has thought, perhaps, that truth needed no set phrase of speech; that misfortune should not veil the furrows which its tears had burned; or hide, under the decorations of an artful drapery, the heart-rent heavings with which its bosom throbbed. He has surely thought that, by contrasting mine with the powerful talents selected by his antagonist, he was giving you a proof that the appeal he made was to your reason, not to your feelings—to the integrity of your hearts, not the exasperation of your passions. Happily, however, for him, happily for you, happily for the country, happily for the profession, on subjects such as this, the experience of the oldest amongst us is but slender; deeds such as this are not indigenous to an Irish soil, or naturalized beneath an Irish climate. We hear of them, indeed, as we do of the earthquakes that convulse, or the pestilence that infects, less favoured regions; but the record of the calamity is only read with the generous scepticism of innocence, or an involuntary thanksgiving to the Providence that has preserved us. No matter how we may have graduated in the scale of nations; no matter with what wreath we may have been adorned, or what blessings we may have been denied; no matter what may have been our feuds, our follies, or our misfortunes; it has at least been universally conceded, that our hearths were the home of the domestic virtues, and that love, honour, and conjugal fidelity, were the dear and indisputable deities of our household: around the fire-side of the Irish hovel hospitality circumscribed its sacred circle; and a provision to punish created a suspicion of the possibility of its violation. But of all the ties that bound—of all the bounties that blessed her—Ireland most obeyed, most loved, most reverenced the nuptial contract. She saw it the gift of Heaven, the charm of earth, the joy of the present, the promise of the future, the innocence of enjoyment, the chastity of passion, the sacrament of love: the slender curtain that shades the sanctuary of her marriage-bed, has in its purity the splendour of the mountain-snow, and for its protection the texture of the mountain-adamant. Gentlemen, that national sanctuary has been invaded; that venerable divinity has been violated; and its tenderest pledges torn from their shrine, by the polluted rapine of a kindless, heartless, prayerless, remorseless adulterer! To you—religion defiled, morals insulted, law despised, public order foully violated, and individual happiness wantonly wounded, make their melancholy appeal. You will hear the facts with as much patience as indignation will allow—I will, myself, ask of you to adjudge them with as much mercy as justice will admit. The Plaintiff in, this case is JOHN GUTHRIE; by birth, by education, by profession, by better than all, by practice and by principles, a gentleman. Believe me, it is not from the common-place of advocacy, or from the blind partiality of friendship, that I say of him, that whether considering the virtues that adorn life, or the 220

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blandishments that endear it, he has few superiors. Surely, if a spirit that disdained dishonour, if a heart that knew not guile, if a life above reproach, and a character beyond suspicion, could have been a security against misfortunes, his lot must have been happiness. I speak in the presence of that profession to which he was an ornament, and with whose members his manhood has been familiar; and I say of him, with a confidence that defies refutation, that, whether we consider him in his private or his public station, as a man or as a lawyer, there never breathed that being less capable of exciting enmity towards himself, or of offering, even by implication, an offence to others. If he had a fault, it was, that, above crime, he was above suspicion; and to that noblest error of a noble nature he has fallen a victim. Having spent his youth in the cultivation of a mind which must have one day led him to eminence, he became a member of the profession by which I am surrounded. Possessing, as he did, a moderate independence, and looking forward to the most flattering prospects, it was natural for him to select amongst the other sex, some friend who should adorn his fortunes, and deceive his toils. He found such a friend, or thought he found her, in the person of Miss Warren, the only daughter of an eminent solicitor. Young, beautiful, and accomplished, she was “adorned with all that earth or heaven could bestow to make her amiable.”1 Virtue never found a fairer temple: beauty never veiled a purer sanctuary: the graces of her mind retained the admiration which her beauty had attracted, and the eye, which her charms fired, became subdued and chastened in the modesty of their association. She was in the dawn of life, with all its fragrance round her, and yet so pure, that even the blush, which sought to hide her lustre, but disclosed the vestal deity that burned beneath it. No wonder an adoring husband anticipated all the joys this world could give him; no wonder the parental eye, which beamed upon their union, saw, in the perspective, an old age of happiness, and a posterity of honour. Methinks I see them at the sacred altar, joining those hands which Heaven commanded none should separate, repaid for many a pang of anxious nurture by the sweet smile of filial piety; and in the holy rapture of the rite, worshipping the power that blessed their children, and gave them hope their names should live hereafter. It was virtue’s vision! None but fiends could envy it. Year after year confirmed the anticipation; four lovely children blessed their union. Nor was their love the summer-passion of prosperity; misfortune proved, afflictions chastened it: before the mandate of that mysterious Power which will at times despoil the paths of innocence, to decorate the chariot of triumphant villany, my client had to bow in silent resignation. He owed his adversity to the benevolence of his spirit; he “went security for friends;” those friends deceived him, and he was obliged to seek in other lands, that safe asylum which his own denied him. He was glad to accept an offer of professional business in Scotland during his temporary embarrassment. With a conjugal devotion, Mrs. Guthrie accompanied him; and in her smile the soil of a stranger was a home, the sorrows of adversity were dear to him. During their residence in Scotland, a period of about a year, you will find they lived as they had done in Ireland, and as they continued to do until this calamitous occurrence, in a state of uninterrupted happiness. You shall hear, most satisfactorily, that their domestic life was unsullied and 221

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undisturbed. Happy at home, happy in a husband’s love, happy in her parents’ fondness, happy in the children she had nursed, Mrs. Guthrie carried into every circle— and there was no circle in which her society was not courted—that cheerfulness which never was a companion of guilt, or a stranger to innocence. My client saw her the pride of his family, the favourite of his friends—at once the organ and ornament of his happiness. His ambition awoke, his industry redoubled; and that fortune, which though for a season it may frown, never totally abandons probity and virtue, had begun to smile on him. He was beginning to rise in the ranks of his competitors, and rising with such a character, that emulation itself rather rejoiced than envied. It was at this crisis, in this, the noon of his happiness, and day-spring of his fortune, that, to the ruin of both, the Defendant became acquainted with his family. With the serpent’s wile, and the serpent’s wickedness, he stole into the Eden of domestic life, poisoning all that was pure, polluting all that was lovely, defying God, destroying man; a demon in the disguise of virtue, a herald of hell in the paradise of innocence. His name, Gentlemen, is WILLIAM PETER BAKER DUNSTANVILLE STERNE: one would think he had epithets enough, without adding to them the title of Adulterer. Of his character I know but little, and I am sorry that I know so much. If I am instructed rightly, he is one of those vain and vapid coxcombs, whose vices tinge the frivolity of their follies with something of a more odious character than ridicule—with just head enough to contrive crime, but not heart enough to feel for its consequences; one of those fashionable insects, that folly has painted, and fortune plumed, for the annoyance of our atmosphere; dangerous alike in their torpidity and their animation; infesting where they fly, and poisoning where they repose. It was through the introduction of Mr. Fallon, the son of a most respectable lady, then resident in Templestreet, and a near relative of Mr. Guthrie, that the Defendant and this unfortunate woman first became acquainted: to such an introduction the shadow of a suspicion could not possibly attach. Occupied himself in his professional pursuits, my client had little leisure for the amusement of society: however, to the protection of Mrs. Fallon, her son, and daughters, moving in the first circles, unstained by any possible imputation, he without hesitation intrusted all that was dear to him. No suspicion could be awakened as to any man to whom such a female as Mrs. Fallon permitted an intimacy with her daughters; while at her house then, and at the parties which it originated, the defendant and Mrs. Guthrie had frequent opportunities of meeting. Who could have suspected, that, under the very roof of virtue, in the presence of a venerable and respected matron, and of that innocent family, whom she had reared up in the sunshine of her example, the most abandoned profligate could have plotted his iniquities! Who would not rather suppose, that, in the rebuke of such a presence, guilt would have torn away the garland from its brow, and blushed itself into virtue. But the depravity of this man was of no common dye: the asylum of innocence was selected only as the sanctuary of his crimes; and the pure and the spotless chosen as his associates, because they would be more unsuspected subsidiaries to his wickedness. Nor were his manner and his language less suited than his society to the concealment of his objects. If you believed himself, the sight of suffering affected 222

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his nerves; the bare mention of immorality smote upon his conscience; an intercourse with the continental courts had refined his mind into a painful sensibility to the barbarisms of Ireland! and yet an internal tenderness towards his native land so irresistibly impelled him to improve it by his residence, that he was a hapless victim to the excess of his feelings!—the exquisiteness of his polish!—and the excellence of his patriotism! His English estates, he said, amounted to about 10,000l, a-year; and he retained in Ireland only a trifling 3000l. more, as a kind of trust for the necessities of its inhabitants!— In short, according to his own description, he was in religion a saint, and in morals a stoic!—a sort of wandering philanthropist! making, like the Sterne who, he confessed, had the honour of his name and his connexion, a Sentimental Journey in search of objects over whom his heart might weep, and his sensibility expand itself!2 How happy it is, that, of the philosophic profligate only retaining the vices and the name, his rashness has led to the arrest of crimes, which he had all his turpitude to commit, without any of his talents to embellish. It was by arts such as I have alluded to—by pretending the most strict morality, the most sensitive honour, the most high and undeviating principles of virtue,— that the defendant banished every suspicion of his designs. As far as appearances went, he was exactly what he described himself. His pretensions to morals he supported by the most reserved and respectful behaviour: his hand was lavish in the distribution of his charities; and a splendid equipage, a numerous retinue, a system of the most profuse and prodigal expenditure, left no doubt as to the reality of his fortune. Thus circumstanced, he found an easy admittance to the house of Mrs. Fallon, and there he had many opportunities of seeing Mrs. Guthrie; for, between his family and that of so respectable a relative as Mrs. Fallon, my client had much anxiety to increase the connexion. They visited together some of the public amusements; they partook of some of the fêtes in the neighbourhood of the metropolis; but upon every occasion, Mrs. Guthrie was accompanied by her own mother, and by the respectable females of Mrs. Fallon’s family. I say, upon every occasion: and I challenge them to produce one single instance of those innocent excursions, upon which the slanders of an interested calumny have been let loose, in which this unfortunate lady was not matronized by her female relatives, and those some of the most spotless characters in society. Between Mr. Guthrie and the defendant, the acquaintance was but slight. Upon one occasion alone they dined together; it was at the house of the plaintiff’s father-in-law; and, that you may have some illustration of the defendant’s character, I shall briefly instance his conduct at this dinner. On being introduced to Mr. Warren, he apologized for any deficiency of etiquette in his visits, declaring that he had been seriously occupied in arranging the affairs of his lamented father, who, though tenant for life, had contracted debts to an enormous amount. He had already paid upwards of 10,000l. which honour and not law compelled him to discharge; as, sweet soul! he could not bear that any one should suffer unjustly by his family! His subsequent conduct was quite consistent with this hypocritical preamble: at dinner, he sat at a distance from Mrs. Guthrie; expatiated to her husband upon matters of 223

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morality; entering into a high-flown panegyric on the virtues of domestic life, and the comfort! of connubial happiness. In short, had there been any idea of jealousy, his manner would have banished it; and the mind must have been worse than sceptical, which would refuse its credence to his surface morality. Gracious God! when the heart once admits guilt as its associate, how every natural emotion flies before it! Surely, surely, here was a scene to reclaim, if it were possible, this remorseless defendant,—admitted to her father’s table, under the shield of hospitality, he saw a young and lovely female, surrounded by her parents, her husband, and her children; the prop of those parents’ age; the idol of that husband’s love; the anchor of those children’s helplessness; the sacred orb of their domestic circle; giving their smile its light, and their bliss its being; robbed of whose beams the little lucid world of their home must become chill, uncheered, and colourless for ever. He saw them happy, he saw them united; blessed with peace, and purity, and profusion; throbbing with sympathy and throned in love; depicting the innocence of infancy, and the joys of manhood, before the venerable eye of age, as if to soften the farewell of one world by the pure and pictured anticipation of a better. Yet, even there, hid in the very sun-beam of that happiness, the demon of its destined desolation lurked. Just Heaven! of what materials was that heart composed, which could meditate cooly on the murder of such enjoyments; which innocence could not soften, nor peace propitiate, nor hospitality appease; but which, in the very beam and bosom of its benefaction, warmed arid excited itself into a more vigorous venom? Was there no sympathy in the scene? Was there no remorse at the crime? Was there no horror at its consequences? “Were honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d! Was there no pity, no relenting ruth, To show the parents fondling o’er their child, Then paint the ruin’d pair and their distraction wild!” BURNS.3 No! no! He was at that instant planning their destruction; and, even within four short days, he deliberately reduced those parents to childishness, that husband to widowhood, those smiling infants to anticipated orphanage, and that peaceful, hospitable, confiding family, to helpless, hopeless, irremediable ruin! Upon the first day of the ensuing July, Mr. Guthrie was to dine with the Connaught bar, at the hotel of Portobello. It is a custom, I am told, with the gentlemen of that association to dine together previous to the circuit; of course my client could not have decorously absented himself. Mrs. Guthrie appeared a little feverish, and he requested that, on his retiring, she would compose herself to rest; she promised him she would; and when he departed, somewhat abruptly, to put some letters in the post-office, she exclaimed, “What! John, are you going to leave me thus?” He returned, and she kissed him. They seldom parted, even for any time, without that token of affection. I am thus minute, Gentlemen, that you may see 224

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up to the last moment, what little cause the husband had for suspicion, and how impossible it was for him to foresee a perfidy which nothing short of infatuation could have produced. He proceeded to his companions with no other regret than that necessity, for a moment, forced him from a home, which the smile of affection had never ceased to endear to him. After a day, however, passed, as such a day might have been supposed to pass, in the flow of soul, and the philosophy of pleasure, he returned home to share his happiness with her, without whom no happiness ever had been perfect. Alas! he was never to behold her more! Imagine, if you can, the phrenzy of his astonishment, in being informed by Mrs. Porter, the daughter of the former landlady, that about two hours before, she had attended Mrs. Guthrie to a confectioner’s shop; that a carriage had drawn up at the corner of the street, into which a gentleman, whom she recognised to be a Mr. Sterne, had handed her, and they instantly departed. I must tell you, there is every reason to believe, that this woman was the confidant of the conspiracy. What a pity that the object of that guilty confidence had not something of humanity; that, as a female, she did not feel for the character of her sex; that, as a “mother, she did not mourn over the sorrows of a helpless family! What pangs might she not have spared? My client could hear no more: even at the dead of night he rushed into the street, as if in its own dark hour he could discover guilt’s recesses. In vain did he awake the peaceful family of the horror-struck Mrs. Fallon; in vain with the parents of the miserable fugitive, did he mingle the tears of an impotent distraction; in vain, a miserable maniac, did he traverse the silent streets of the metropolis, affrighting virtue from its slumber, with the spectre of its own ruin. I will not harrow you with its heart-rending recital. But imagine you see him, when the day had dawned, returning wretched to his deserted dwelling; seeing in every chamber a memorial of his loss, and hearing every tongueless object eloquent of his wo. Imagine you see him, in the reverie of his grief, trying to persuade himself it was all a vision, and awakened only to the horrid truth by his helpless children asking him for their mother!— Gentlemen, this is not a picture of the fancy; it literally occurred there is something less of romance in the reflection, which his children awakened in the mind of their afflicted father; he ordered that they should be immediately habited in mourning. How rational sometimes are the ravings of insanity! For all the purposes of maternal life, poor innocents! they have no mother! her tongue no more can teach, her hand no more can tend them; for them there is not “speculation in her eyes;” to them her life is something worse than death; as if the awful grave had yawned her forth, she moves before them, shrouded all in sin, the guilty burden of its peaceless sepulchre. Better, far better, their little feet had followed in her funeral, than the hour which taught her value, should reveal her vice,—mourning her loss, they might have blessed her memory; and shame need not have rolled its fires into the fountain of their sorrow. As soon as his reason became sufficiently collected, Mr. Guthrie pursued the fugitives: he traced them successively to Kildare, to Carlow, Waterford, Milfordhaven, on through Wales, and finally to Ilfracombe, in Devonshire, where the clue was lost. I am glad that, in this route and restlessness of their guilt, as the crime 225

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they perpetrated was foreign to our soil, they did not make that soil the scene of its habitation. I will not follow them through this joyless journey, nor brand by my record the unconscious scene of its pollution. But philosophy never taught, the pulpit never enforced, a more imperative morality than the itinerary of that accursed tour promulgates. Oh! if there be a maid or matron in this island, balancing between the alternative of virtue and of crime, trembling between the hell of the seducer and the adulterer, and the heaven of the parental and the nuptial home, let her pause upon this one out of the many horrors I could depict,—and be converted. I will give you the relation in the very words of my brief; I cannot improve upon the simplicity of the recital: “On the 7th of July they arrived at Milford; the captain of the packet dined with them, and was astonished at the magnificence of her dress.” (Poor wretch! she was decked and adorned for the sacrifice!) The next day they dined alone. Towards evening, the housemaid, passing near their chamber, heard Mr. Sterne scolding and apparently beating her! In a short time after, Mrs. Guthrie rushed out of her chamber into the drawing-room, and throwing herself in agony upon the sofa, she exclaimed, “Oh! what an unhappy wretch I am!—I left my home, where I was happy, too happy, seduced by a man who has deceived me. My poor HUSBAND! my dear CHILDREN! Oh! if they would even let my little WILLIAM live with me!—it would be some consolation to my BROKEN HEART!” “Alas! nor children more can she behold, Nor friends, nor sacred home.”4 Well might she lament over her fallen fortunes! Well might she mourn over the memory of days when the sun of heaven seemed to rise but for her happiness! well might she recall the home she had endeared, the children she had nursed, the hapless husband, of whose life she was the pulse! But one short week before, this earth could not reveal a lovelier vision:—Virtue blessed, affection followed, beauty beamed on her; the light of every eye, the charm of every heart, she moved along in cloudless chastity, cheered by the song of love, and circled by the splendours she created! Behold her now, the loathsome refuse of an adulterous bed; festering in the very infection of her crime; the scoff and scorn of their unmanly, merciless, inhuman author? But thus it ever is with the votaries of guilt; the birth of their crime is the death of their enjoyment; and the wretch who flings his offering on its altar, falls an immediate victim to the flame of his devotion. I am glad it is so; it is a wise, retributive dispensation; it bears the stamp of a preventive Providence. I rejoice it is so, in the present instance, first, because this premature infliction must ensure repentance in the wretched sufferer; and next, because, as this adulterous fiend has rather acted on the suggestions of his nature than his shape, by rebelling against the finest impulse of man, he has made himself an outlaw from the sympathies of humanity.—Why should he expect that charity from you, which he would not spare even to the misfortunes he had inflicted? For the honour of the form in which he is disguised, I am willing to hope he was so blinded by his vice, that he did not see 226

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the full extent of those misfortunes. If he had feelings capable of being touched, it is not to the faded victim of her own weakness, and of his wickedness, that I would direct them. There is something in her crime which affrights charity from its commiseration. But, Gentlemen, there is one, over whom pity may mourn,—for he is wretched; and mourn without a blush,—for he is guiltless. How shall I depict to you the deserted husband? To every other object in this catalogue of calamity there is some stain attached which checks compassion. But here—Oh! if ever there was a man amiable, it was that man. Oh! if ever there was a husband fond, it was that husband. His hope, his joy, his ambition was domestic; his toils were forgotten in the affections of his home; and amid every adverse variety of fortune, hope pointed to his children,—and he was comforted. By this vile act that hope is blasted, that house is a desert, those children are parentless! In vain do they look to their surviving parent: his heart is broken, his mind is in ruins, his very form is fading form the earth. He had one consolation, an aged mother, on whose life the remnant of his fortunes hung, and on whose protection of his children his remaining prospects rested; even that is over;—she could not survive his shame, she never raised her head, she became hearsed in his misfortune;—he has followed her funeral. If this be not the climax of human misery, tell me in what does human misery consist? Wife, parent, fortune, prospects, happiness,—all gone at once, —and gone for ever! For my part, when I contemplate this, I do not wonder at the impression it has produced on him; I do not wonder at the faded form, the dejected air, the emaciated countenance, and all the ruinous and mouldering trophies, by which misery has marked its triumph over youth, and health, and happiness? I know, that in the hordes of what is called fashionable life, there is a sect of philosophers, wonderfully patient of their fellow-creatures’ sufferings; men too insensible to feel for any one, or too selfish to feel for others. I trust there is not one amongst you who can even hear of such calamities without affliction; or, if there be, I pray that he may never know their import by experience; that having, in the wilderness of this world, but one dear and darling object, without whose participation bliss would be joyless, and in whose sympathies sorrow has found a charm; whose smile has cheered his toil, whose love has pillowed his misfortunes, whose angel-spirit, guiding him through danger, and darkness, and despair, amid the world’s frown and the friend’s perfidy, was more than friend, and world, and all to him! God forbid, that by a villain’s wile, or a villain’s wickedness, he should be taught how to appreciate the woe of others in the dismal solitude of his own. Oh, no! I feel that I address myself to human beings, who, knowing the value of what the world is worth, are capable of appreciating all that makes it dear to us.

Notes 1 2 3 4

Misquote of John Milton, Paradise Lost, book 8. Lawrence Sterne, A Sentimental Journey (1768). Robert Burns, The Cotter’s Saturday Night (1786). James Thomson, ‘Winter’, The Seasons (1726).

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31 R IC HARD DYBECK ( 1 8 11 – 1 8 7 7 ) , THOU ANCIENT. THOU FREE (Du Gamla Du Fria)

Richard Dybeck was a Swedish jurist and antiquarian. He wrote the lyrics of the first two verses to the Swedish national anthem, which was to be accompanied by the melody of the ballad Kärestans död (Death of the beloved). Later verses were added by a number of singers, most significantly two by Louise Ahlén in the early 1900s, which appear below. The song itself has never been formally recognised by the state, but by 1893 the monarch rose when it was played, reflecting the popular acceptance of it as a national song. National anthems came to popularity in the nineteenth century, although many countries deployed older songs or folk tradition for this purpose. They reflect the growing emphasis on the nation as the central unit of political loyalty for individuals, rather than allegiance to the monarchy. The uses of music and lyrics to promote patriotism is suggestive of the emotional functions of music, while the ritual of singing an anthem, especially at significant public events, acts to bond communities together through a shared action. … Thou ancient, thou glorious, thou alpcrowned Du gamla, Du fria, Du fjällhöga nord North, Du tysta, Du glädjerika sköna! Where freeborn and happy hearts are beating! Jag hälsar Dig, vänaste land uppå jord, Din sol, Din himmel, Dina ängder gröna. We hail thee, thou fairest of lands on the earth, Thy sun, thy skies, thy flow’ry valleys greeting! Du tronar på minnen från fornstora da’r, då ärat Ditt namn flög över jorden. Jag vet att Du är och Du blir vad Du var. Ja, jag vill leva, jag vill dö i Norden.

How proudly we dwell on thy great deeds of yore, What time thy name was famed in story, Thy children still are as valiant as before: In thee I’ll live and die, thou land of glory!

Jag städs vill dig tjäna, mitt älskade land, dig trohet till döden vill jag svära. Din rätt skall jag värna med håg och med hand, din fana, högt den bragderika bära. Med Gud skall jag kämpa för hem och för härd för Sverige, den kära fosterjorden. Jag byter Dig ej, mot allt i denna värld Nej, jag vill leva jag vill dö i Norden.

Forever to thee be my loyalty, Unto my grave I shall serve thee, With heart and hand thine right defend, Thy banner sternly gleaming advance! God willing, our home and hearth sustain! Our loved native Northland remains! No other clime takes after my heart, From thee I shall ne’er depart!

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32 A L FR ED DREYF USS ( 1 8 5 9 – 1 9 3 5 ) , F IVE Y EARS OF M Y LI FE, 1894–1899 (New York: McClure, Phillips, & Co, 1911), pp. 49–71

Alfred Dreyfuss was a French Jewish artillery officer, who was charged and convicted of treason in 1894. The evidence to support his guilt was tenuous and his family fought to prove his innocence, highlighting that another officer might have been guilty. The case became a major scandal, with the public divided between those who thought he was innocent and those who believed he was guilty. The case, which became known as the Dreyfuss Affair, brought forth significant antiJewish sentiment, and highlighted the ongoing place of anti-Semitism in French society, something that was confronting to a culture that was formally secular and recognised the equality of all its citizens. Ultimately in 1906, Dreyfuss was pardoned and later exonerated and allowed to return to his military career. The account below, taken from an English translation of Dreyfuss’s memoirs, were produced as part of an attempt to rehabilitate Dreyfuss’s public reputation. The excerpt describes the ritual, after he was found guilty of treason, where he is stripped of rank and honours, as well as the days in prison following. The moving account, coupled with letters to his wife that present their marriage as the ideal nineteenth-century domestic union (compare with source 30 for example), was designed to present him as a man of honour and respectability, promoting the idea of his innocence. His version of events is also supported in his memoirs by a newspaper account that mirrors his own telling of the degradation. Thus, the memoirs is also a persuasive genre trying to shape public opinion. … THE degradation took place Saturday, the 5th of January. I underwent the horrible torture without weakness. Before the ceremony, I waited for an hour in the hall of the garrison adjutant at the Ecole Militaire, guarded by the captain of gendarmes, Lebrun-Renault. During these long minutes I gathered up all the forces of my being. The memory of the dreadful months which I had just passed came back to me, and in broken sentences I recalled to the captain the last visit which Commandant du Paty de Clam had made me in my prison. I protested 229

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against the vile accusation which had been brought against me; I recalled that I had written again to the Minister to tell him of my innocence. It is by a travesty of these words that Lebrun-Renault, with singular lack of conscience, created or allowed to be created that legend of confession, of which I learned the existence only in January, 1899. If they had spoken to me about it before my departure from France, which did not take place until February, 1895, —that is, more than seven weeks after the degradation,— I should have tried to strangle this calumny in its infancy. After this I was marched to the centre of the square, under a guard of four men and a corporal. Nine o’clock struck. General Darras, commanding the parade, gave the order to carry arms. I suffered agonizingly, but held myself erect with all my strength. To sustain me I called up the memory of my wife and children. As soon as the sentence had been read out, I cried aloud, addressing myself to the troops: “Soldiers, they are degrading an innocent man. Soldiers, they are dishonoring an innocent man. Vive la France, vive l’armée!” A Sergeant of the Republican Guard came up to me. He tore off rapidly buttons, trousers-stripes, the signs of my rank from cap and sleeves, and then broke my sword across his knee. I saw all these material emblems of my honor fall at my feet. Then, my whole being racked by a fearful paroxysm, but with body erect and head high, I shouted again and again to the soldiers and to the assembled crowd the cry of my soul. “I am innocent!” The parade continued. I was compelled to make the whole round of the square. I heard the howls of a deluded mob, I felt the thrill which I knew must be running through those people, since they believed that before them was a convicted traitor to France; and I struggled to transmit to their hearts another thrill, — belief in my innocence. The round of the square made, the torture would be over, I believed. But the agony of that long day was only beginning. They tied my hands, and a prison van took me to the Dépôt (Central Prison of Paris), passing over the Alma Bridge. On coming to the end of the bridge, I saw through the tiny grating of my compartment in the van the windows of the home where such happy years of my life had been spent, where I was leaving all my happiness behind me. My grief bowed me down. At the Central Prison, in my torn and stripped uniform, I was dragged from hall to hall, searched, photographed, and measured. At last, toward noon, I was taken to the Santé Prison and shut up in a convict’s cell. My wife was permitted to see me twice a week, in the private office of the Prison Director. The latter, by the way, showed himself strictly just and fair during my whole stay. 230

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Nothing can better give the impressions of my wife and myself during the sad days I passed in the Sante Prison than our correspondence, of which I give a few extracts:— “January 5, 1895. My Darling,— In promising you to live until my name is rehabilitated, I have made the greatest sacrifice that can be made by an honest man. Some time when we are reunited, I will tell you what I have suffered to-day as I went through, one after another, those ignominious stations of my Calvary. Again and again I wondered to myself, ‘Why are you here? What are you doing here?’ I seemed to myself to be the victim of an hallucination. Then, my torn, dishonored garments would bring me brutally back to reality. The looks of hate and scorn told me, only too plainly, why I was there. Oh, why could not my heart have been laid open so that all may have read it,—so that all those poor people along my route would have cried out, ‘This is a man of honor!’ . . . How well I understand them! In their place I could not have restrained my contempt for an officer branded a traitor to his country. But, alas! here is the pitiful tragedy. There is a traitor, but it is not I!” . . . “January 5, 1895, Saturday evening, 7 o’clock. I have just had a spasm of tears and sobs with my whole body shaken by a violent chill. It was the reaction from the tortures of the day. It had to come. But, alas! instead of crying in your arms, my head buried in your breast, my sobs have resounded in the emptiness of my prison. It is over. Bear up, my heart. I owe myself to my family. I owe myself to my name. I have not the right to give up. While there remains a breath of life I will struggle. Alfred.” From my wife:— “Saturday evening, January 5, 1895. What a horrible morning! What fearful moments! No, I cannot think of them; it makes me suffer too much. My poor husband, that you, a man of honor, you who adore France, who have so high a sense of duty, should undergo the most disgraceful punishment that can be inflicted on a Frenchman, — it is unendurable. You promised me to be courageous. You have kept your word, and I bless you for it. The dignity of your attitude has impressed many; and when the hour 231

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of rehabilitation comes, the sufferings you have endured during these horrible moments will be engraved upon the memories of men. I should so much have wished to have been near you, to give you strength and comfort; I had so much hoped to see you, my beloved one. My heart bleeds at the thought that my permit has not yet come, and that I must perhaps wait a while before having the delight of clasping you in my arms. Our darling children are very, very good. They are gay and happy. It is a comfort in our measureless misfortune to have them so young and unconscious of the events that surround them. Pierre speaks of you with such wistful ardor that 1 cannot help breaking down sometimes. Lucie.” From the Santé Prison:— “January 6, 1895, Sunday, 5 o’clock. Forgive me, my beloved, if in my letters yesterday I poured out my grief and made a display of my torture. I had to confide them to some one! And what heart is better prepared than yours to receive the outpouring of my grief?   . . . It is your love that gives me courage to live. I must feel the thrill of your love close to my heart. Courage, then, my darling. Do not think too much of me; you have other duties to fulfil. They are heavy, but I know that if you do not let yourself be cast down, if you preserve your strength, you will discharge them all. You must therefore struggle against yourself, summon up all your energy, think only of your duties. . . . Alfred.” From my wife:— “Sunday, January 6, 1895. I am greatly distressed at not having yet received news from you. I am anxious to know how you bore up under those fearful moments. Your two letters have just come; they are so consoling. I feel in them all your rectitude and tenderness of heart. You spoil me, and I thank you for it. I must not tell you how the thought of this last ordeal has tormented me, and what excruciating pangs I have felt at the thought of you. My God! what a life! I expected you to have that moment of reaction, an uncontrollable spasm of grief; I am sure that it has done you good to weep. Poor boy! We were so happy, we lived so peacefully, and only for each other. We thought but of the happiness of our parents and children. If only I could be with you, remaining in your cell and living your life, I should be almost happy. I should at least have the great solace of helping

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to comfort you a little. My boundless affection would console you, and I would surround you with every care a loving wife can bestow. But I beseech you, keep up your courage; do not allow yourself to be cast down.” “Monday, January 7, 1895. My first concern as soon as I rise is to come and talk with you for a little and try to send a wee ray of warmth into your gloomy cell. I suffer so much at knowing that while you are so unhappy, I am unable to comfort you. Everything about, and all that passes before me, which is not of you, is to me as if it did not exist. I can think but of you; I wish to live only for you and in the hope of being with you soon again. Ah, if I could but see you, remain with and help you to forget a little our adversity! What would I not give for that!” “January 7, evening. What can I say but that I think only of you, that I speak only of you, that all my soul and all my mind reach out to you. Do not let grief destroy you, but bend all your force of character to retain your health. . . . We all are convinced there is no error but will be discovered some day; that the guilty one will be found, and our efforts crowned with success. . . . Lucie.” From the Prison of the Santé:— “Tuesday, January 8. . . . In the moments of my deepest sadness, in my moments of violent crisis, a star comes suddenly to shine upon my mind and beam upon me. It is your image, my darling. With your face before me, I shall find patience to wait till they give me back my honor. Alfred.” From my wife:— “Tuesday, January 8, 1895. Wildly agitated at having no news from you, I passed a miserable night. This morning I received your dear letter of Saturday, and it has done me good. I do not at all understand how your letters take so long a time to reach me. . . . I have just received permission to see you Wednesday and Friday at 2 p.m. Think how happy I am. . . . Lucie.”

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From the Santé Prison:— “Wednesday, January 9, 1895. My Good Darling, — Truly, as I keep thinking of it again, I wonder how I could have dared to promise you to live on after my condemnation. That day, that Saturday, is stamped into my mind in burning letters. I have the courage of the soldier who goes forward gladly to meet death face to face; but, alas! have I the soul of the martyr?. . . It is because I hope, that I live; because I am convinced that it is impossible the truth will not some day be made clear, . . . because I believe my innocence will be recognized.” “Thursday, January 10, 1895. Since two o’clock this morning I have been unable to close my eyes for the thought that today I should see you. It seems that even now I hear your sweet voice speaking to me of my dear children, of our dear families, and I am not ashamed to weep, for the torture that I endure is too cruel for an innocent man. Alfred.” From my wife:— “Thursday, January 10, 1895. Yesterday evening I received your Tuesday’s letter and read and re-read it. I wept alone in my chamber, and this morning again when I awoke. Last night I had a calmer sleep; I dreamed we were talking together. But what an awakening! Lucie.” From the Santé Prison;— “Friday, January 11, 1895. Forgive me if I sometimes complain. How can I help it? At times my heart is so swollen with grief that I must pour its overflow into your heart. We have always understood one another so well that I am sure your strong and generous heart throbs with the same indignation as mine . . . . I can well excuse this rage of a patriotic people who have been told that there is a traitor, . . . but I want to live that they may know that traitor is not I. Upheld by your love, by the devotion of our entire family, I shall overcome fate. I do not say that I shall not have moments of despondency, perhaps absolute despair. . . . But I shall live, my adored one, because I want you to bear my name,

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as you have borne it until now, with honor, joy, and love; and because I want to transmit it stainless to our children. Do not be weakened in your purpose by adversity. Search ever for the truth. . . . Alfred.” From my wife:— “Friday, January 11, 1895. How glad I am to have passed a few minutes with you, and how short they seem to me! I was so moved that I could not speak to you as I had wished, and exhort you to have courage. My dearest one, did I tell you what I think of you, how much 1 love and admire you, and the gratitude I feel for the heroism with which you are enduring this moral, mental, and physical torture? How I appreciate your doing it for my sake and that of our children! I am remorseful at not having spoken enough of the hope we have of discovering the truth; we are absolutely convinced that we shall succeed in doing it. To tell you when that will be is impossible, but have patience and never despair, for, as I told you a while ago, we have but one thought from morning to evening, and during the sleepless hours of the night we rack our brains to find some sign, some guiding thread which will help us to find the infamous wretch who has destroyed our good name. Do not be uneasy about your children; they are both of them stout little hearts.” ... “Saturday, January 12, 1895. I am thrilled still by yesterday’s interview; I was deeply moved in seeing and talking with you, and experienced such joy that I have been unable to close my eyes all the night long. It is wonderful that, in spite of your sufferings, you should keep up your courage. Yes, we must hope the day is soon coming when your innocence shall be recognized, when France shall acknowledge her error and see in you one of her noblest sons. You shall yet know happiness; we shall pass happy years together, and you who were making so many plans, and dreamed of making your son a man, shall still have this joy. Your little Pierre is very good, and his sister is pretty as well as good. I was always strict with them, you remember, but I confess that now, while demanding their obedience, I rarely can resist indulging them. Let the poor little things profit by it before learning the tribulations of life.” . . . “Sunday, January 13, 1895. What patience and courage you have, to bear up under these continued humiliations! I am proud to bear your name, and when the children are old enough, they will understand as I do that you have endured this interminable harrowing agony for their sake.”

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“Monday, January 14, 1895. What a pity the minutes of our meeting, so short and so longed-for, should be already past! How protracted the minutes of weariness are, but how quickly the happy ones fly! This interview, like the first one, passed away like a dream; I went to the prison with the joy of expectancy, and came back very sad. The sight of you has done me good; I could not cease looking at and listening to you; but it is horrible to have to leave you alone in your bare cell, a prey to such fearful mental torture, undeserved. . . . Lucie.” For a time after this, my wife, worn out by this uninterrupted succession of violent emotions, was obliged to keep her bed. “Wednesday, January 18, 1895. What a sad day I am passing, worse than the others, if that were possible, for the one shadow of happiness that is granted us has been refused me to-day. I have been able to rise, but I am not yet strong enough to go out. And in spite of my yearning to see and embrace you, the doctor, fearing I might take cold, insisted that I should keep my room to-day and to-morrow. This filled me with grief, and I must confess to you that I was not very reasonable. I hid away that I might weep. Lucie.” This letter reached me only at the Ile de Ré; my wife did not at the time of writing know of my departure.

The degradation The following account of this ceremony appeared the next morning in one of the papers most hostile to Dreyfus:— “The first stroke of nine sounds from the school clock. General Darras lifts his sword and gives the command, which is repeated at the head of each company: ‘Portez armes!’ The troops obey. A complete silence ensues. Hearts stop beating, and all eyes are turned toward the corner of the vast square, where Dreyfus has been shut up in a small building. Soon a little group appears: it is Alfred Dreyfus who is advancing, between four artillerymen, accompanied by a Lieutenant of the Republican Guard and the oldest non-commissioned officer of the regiment. Between the dark dolmans of the gunners we see distinctly the gold of the three stripes and the gold of the capbands: 236

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the sword glitters, and even at this distance we behold the black sword-knot on the hilt of the sword. Dreyfus marches with a steady step. ‘Look, see how straight the wretch is carrying himself,’ some one says. The group advances toward General Darras, with whom is the clerk of the Court Martial, M. Vallecale. There are cries now in the crowd. But the group halts. A sign from the officer in command, the drums beat, and the trumpets blow, and then again all is still; a tragic silence now. The artillerymen with Dreyfus drop back a few steps, and the condemned man stands well out in full view of us all. The clerk salutes the General, and turning towards Dreyfus reads distinctly the verdict: ‘The said Dreyfus is condemned to military degradation and to deportation to a fortress.’ The clerk turns to the General and salutes. Dreyfus has listened in silence. The voice of General Darras is then heard, and although it is slightly tremulous with emotion, we catch distinctly this phrase:— ‘Dreyfus, you are unworthy to wear the uniform. In the name of the French people, we deprive you of your rank.’ Thereupon we behold Dreyfus lift his arms in air, and, his head well up, exclaim in a loud voice, in which there is not the slightest tremor:— ‘I am innocent. I swear that I am innocent. Vive la France!’ In reply the immense throng without clamors, ‘Death to the traitor!’ But the noise is instantly hushed. Already the adjutant whose melancholy duty it is to strip from the prisoner his stripes and arms has begun his work, and they now begin to strew the ground. Dreyfus makes this the occasion of a fresh protest, and his cries carry distinctly even to the crowd outside:— ‘In the name of my wife and children, I swear that I am innocent. I swear it. Vive la France!’ But the work has been rapid. The adjutant has torn quickly the stripes from the hat, the embroideries from the cuffs, the buttons from the dolman, the numbers from the collar, and ripped off the red stripe worn by the prisoner ever since his entrance into the Polytechnic School. The sabre remains: the adjutant draws it from its scabbard and breaks it across his knee. There is a dry click, and the two portions are flung with the insignia upon the ground. Then the belt is detached, and in its turn the scabbard falls. This is the end. These few seconds have seemed to us ages. Never was there a more terrible sensation of anguish. 237

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And once more, clear and passionless, comes the voice of the prisoner:— ‘You are degrading an innocent man.’ He must now pass along the line in front of his former comrades and subordinates. For another the torture would have been horrible. Dreyfus does not seem to be affected, however, for he leaps over the insignia of his rank, which two gendarmes are shortly to gather up, and takes his place between the four gunners, who, with drawn swords, have led him before General Darras. The little group, led by two officers of the Republican Guard, moves toward the band of music in front of the prison van and begins its march along the front of the troops and about three feet distant from them. Dreyfus holds his head well up. The public cries, ‘Death to the traitor!’ Soon he reaches the great gateway, and the crowd has a better sight of him. The cries increase, thousands of voices demanding the death of the wretch, who still exclaims: ‘I am innocent! Vive la France!’ The crowd has not heard, but it has seen Dreyfus turn toward it and speak. A formidable burst of hisses replies to him, then an immense shout which rolls like a tempest across the vast courtyard:— ‘Death to the traitor! Kill him!’ And then outside the mob heaves forward in a murderous surge. Only by a mighty effort can the police restrain the people from breaking through into the yard, to wreak their swift and just vengeance upon Dreyfus for his infamy. Dreyfus continues his march. He reaches the group made up of the press representatives. ‘You will say to the whole of France,’ he cries, ‘that I am innocent!’ ‘Silence, wretch,’ is the reply. ‘Coward! Traitor! Judas!’ Under the insult, the abject Dreyfus pulls himself up. He flings at us a glance full of fierce hatred. ‘You have no right to insult me!‘ A clear voice issues from the group:— ‘You know well that you are not innocent. Vive la France! Dirty Jew!’ Dreyfus continues his route. His clothing is pitiably dishevelled. In the place of his stripes hang long dangling threads, and his cap has no shape. Dreyfus pulls himself up once more, but the cries of the crowd are beginning to affect him. Though the head of the wretch is still insolently turned toward the troops, his legs are beginning to give way. The march round the square is ended. Dreyfus is handed over to the two gendarmes, who have gathered up his stripes, and they conduct him to the prison van. . . . Dreyfus, completely silent now, is placed once more in prison. But there again he protests his innocence. 238

33 H E LEN SJ ÖS TEDT, W OM EN’ S FREEDOM APPEAL: A COMPLEMENT TO V. V. H E IDENSTAM’S CITIZEN’ S SONG (K V INNORNAS FRIHETS VÄDJ AN ET T KOMPL EM ENT TI L L V.V. HEIDEN S TAM S “MEDBORGARSÅ NG”) (Gothenburg: Oscar Isacson, 1913)

Helen Sjöstedt was a Swedish feminist and writer who campaigned for female suffrage, and proponent of theosophy, lecturing on the topic and founding a number of Swedish branches of the Theosophy Society. The poem below was written as a feminist counterpoint to the poet Carl Gustaf Verner von Heidenstam’s (1859–1940) Citizen’s Song. Heidenstam saw his work as contributing to a patriotic Swedish culture, and his poems often commented on political issues. His Citizen’s Song was a call for universal suffrage, directly criticising a political system built upon money. The song compares the contribution made to society by rich and poor, suggesting they both should have the same rights. Sjöstedt’s version of the poem uses a very similar structure and content to the original, but rather than comparing rich and poor, she contrasts men and women. Thus, she makes the point that women too contribute to the nation and so should receive suffrage. As a piece of political rhetoric, Sjöstedt deploys emotion, not least the idea of shame, to encourage listeners to recognise the justice of female suffrage. … (With a compliment to V.V. Heidenstam’s “Medborgarsång”)1 As true as we daughters of the land of Swedes with its sons homes have shared, as true as we were born on the same shore,

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where together we experienced pleasure and pain, we wish to go among the proud sons as free as they above the earth, choose strong and secure to stand in line, as behooves the daughters of the North. Ye sons! We fought as in a battle, we bore you often with tears, we shared sorrow as well as joy and peace, during life’s winters and springs; we offered our love, we gave our support in castles as in the most miserable hut, we fought as ye in our struggle for bread, though we were laced in ribbons and chains. When unrest prevailed and the need was severe, when the flames of desolation glowed, Ye sons! We betrayed not you, nor our farms, together we often bled; we shared homeland and duty and all, let us also share freedom equally! For half we are of the salt of the earth, and we can no longer yield. It is shameful that we are subdued by laws and commandments, that only makes sons rich, it is shameful to think, that the same God did not create us equal, but we have grown, we daughters, we claim our right, from sleep we woke up, we women, we are surely also of the lineage of heroes and not weak stunted slaves. Now are we tired of the stepchildren’s lot at home, in the state and in church, now we want to be measured by the measure of justice, now we want to test our strength! It is shameful that no mothers with a calloused hand can vote among the multitudes of sons, it is shameful, that law in our free country shall trade in women as goods, But we tolerate no longer such Viking tradition, which traps us like prey in the hunt, we want to be equal in the ranks of friends and we do not want to quarrel over power.

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May spring come with a whistling storm and dash with mighty wings every shameful tyranny and each rotten condition, that law and honour impose

Note 1 Translated by Katie Barclay, with thanks to Kaarle Wirta for his advice.

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Part 5 SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY

Part 5 Science and philosophy

Ideas about emotion in the nineteenth century were heavily influenced by new biological and psychological sciences, not least evolutionary theory. Scientists and similar scholars sought to provide natural biological explanations for behaviour that were rooted both in contemporary observations of individuals and long histories of humanity. Notably many of these theories reinforced cultural hierarchies based on race and gender, reified them in empirical knowledge claims, and led to, in some important ways, a narrowing of normative emotional expression in men and women (note, for example, Millingen’s critique of male violence in 1848 compared to Ellis’ naturalisation of such behaviour in 1903, both below). Feminist scientists often sought to counter these ideas with their own research. Scientists were not the only people in nineteenth-century society theorising and researching the nature of emotion, but their cultural significance, both at the time and in understandings of emotion today, is such that this section largely focuses on individuals working within an academic research paradigm. Notably, as psychology starts to develop as its own field, its crossover with philosophy lessens and its methods evolve; for instance, studies of emotion moved from a concern with the pathological and deviant to normative accounts of everyday feeling. The history of emotions in nineteenth-century scientific writings highlights not only new ideas about emotions but new mechanisms by which they are discovered and interpreted.

34 PHILIP PE P INEL (17 4 5 – 1 8 2 6 ) , A T REATISE OF INS ANI TY Trans. D.D. Davis (Sheffield: W. Todd, 1806), pp. 19–21, 224–234

Philippe Pinel was a French physician who developed the concept of ‘moral therapy’ that led to significant change in the treatment and care of those with mental illness. Many of his ideas on this topic were shaped by his time working in the Bicêtre asylum, before he became a professor of medical pathology. He was a pioneer of the medical case study, spending many hours observing his patients and writing up their histories. The excerpt below is taken from D.D. Davis’s translation of his work, Traité médico-philosophique sur l’aliénation mentale; ou la manie (1801), which was an early text in the development of psychiatry. In his account below, extreme or unusual emotions can be an evidence of mental illness, but emotions can also be used as part of therapy, where frights or similar events can counteract conditions like melancholy. Rather than viewing mental illness as a permanent condition, Pinel emphasised that there were degrees of illness, as well as classifications, and that these shaped rationality in various ways. His book was structured across these classifications and their treatments, notably dividing mental illness into melancholy, mania, dementia and idiotism. Treatment for many types of mental illness, especially under the category melancholy, focused on forms of emotional management, often through encouraging individuals to emote in ‘healthier’ ways, such as directing their feelings to love for a family. …

Changes in the affections of the mind during paroxysms of insanity 7. HE who has identified anger, with fury or transient madness, (ira furor brevis est,) has expressed a truth, the profundity of which we are more or less disposed to acknowledge, in proportion as our experience on the subject of insanity has been more or less extensive. Paroxysms of madness are generally no more than irascible emotions prolonged beyond their ordinary limits; and the true character of such paroxysms depends, perhaps, more frequently upon the various influence

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of the passions, than upon any derangement of the ideas, or upon any whimsical singularities of the judging faculty. The terms mania and fury, are used synonymously in the works of Aretæus and Cælius Aurelianus, who are acknowledged masters in the art of observation. It may, however, be observed, without disparagement to the authority of these venerated names, that such a latitude of meaning is incompatible with the simplicity and precision of descriptive language. We have occasionally seen cases of periodical insanity, without fury, but scarcely ever without some change or perversion of the functions of the understanding. A man, rendered insane by events connected with the revolution, repelled with rudeness, a child whom at other times he most tenderly caressed. I have, likewise, seen a young man that was much attached to his father, commit acts of outrage, and even attempt to strike at him, when under the influence of this unfortunate disease. I could mention several instances of maniacs, of known intregity and honesty during their intervals of calmness, who had an irresistible propensity to cheat and to steal upon the accession of their maniacal paroxysms. Another maniac, who was naturally of a very mild and pacific disposition, appeared to be inspired by the demon of malice and mischief during the whole period of his attack. His time and faculties were then employed in the most mischievous activity; shutting up his companions in their own rooms, and seeking every means of insulting and quarrelling with them. Some are actuated by an instinctive propensity to commit to the flames every thing of a combustible nature; a propensity which, in most instances, must no doubt be ascribed to an error of the imagination. A madman tore and destroyed the furniture of his bed, (bed-clothes and straw,) under the apprehension that they were heaps of adders and coils of writhing serpents. But, amongst madmen of this description, there are some whose imaginations are in no degree affected, but who feel a blind and ferocious propensity to imbrue their hands in human blood. I mention this circumstance upon the authority of one of my patients, in whose veractiy I had the utmost confidence, and who during one of his lucid intervals confided to me the fatal acknowledgement. To complete this account of automatic atrocity, I shall just mention the instance of a madman who directed his fury towards himself as well as against other people. He had taken off his own hand with a chopping knife, previous to his admission into the hospital; and, notwithstanding his close confinement, he made constant efforts to mangle his own thighs with his teeth. This unfortunate man put an end to his existence in one of his fits.

An attempt to cure a case of melancholia produced by a moral cause 98. THE fanciful ideas of melancholies are much more easily and effectually diverted by moral remedies, and especially by active employment, than by the best prepared and applied medicaments. But relapses are exceedingly difficult to prevent upon the best founded system of treatment. A working man, during an effervescent period of the revolution, suffered some unguarded expressions to 248

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escape him, respecting the trial and condemnation of Louis XVI. His patriotism began to be suspected in the neighbourhood. Upon hearing some vague and exaggerated reports of intentions on the part of government agents to prosecute him for disloyalty, he one day betook himself in great tremour and consternation to his own house. His appetite and sleep forsook him. He surrendered himself to the influence of terror, left off working, was wholly absorbed by the subject of his fear; and at length he became fully impressed with the conviction that death was his unavoidable fate. Having undergone the usual treatment at the Hôtel Dieu, he was transferred to Bicetre.1 The idea of his death haunted him night and day, and he unceasingly repeated, that he was ready to submit to his impending fate. Constant employment at his trade, which was that of a tailor, appeared to me the most probable means of diverting the current of his morbid thoughts. I applied to the board for a small salary for him, in consideration of his repairing the clothes of the other patients of the asylum. This measure appeared to engage his interest in a very high degree. He undertook the employment with great eagerness, and worked without interruption for two months. A favourable change appeared to be taking place. He made no complaints nor any allusions to his supposed condemnation. He even spoke with the tenderest interest of a child of about six years of age, whom it seemed he had forgotten, and expressed a very great desire of having it brought to him. This awakened sensibility struck me as a favourable omen. The child was sent for, and all his other desires were gratified. He continued to work at his trade with renewed alacrity, frequently observing, that his child, who was now with him altogether, constituted the happiness of his life. Six months passed in this way without any disturbance or accident. But in the very hot weather of Messidor, (June and July) year 5,2 some precursory symptoms of returning melancholy began to shew themselves. A sense of heaviness in the head, pains of the legs and arms, a silent and pensive air, indisposition to work, indifference for his child, whom he pushed from him with marked coolness and even aversion, distinguished the progress of his relapse. He now retired into his cell, where he remained, stretched on the floor, obstinately persisting in his conviction, that there was nothing left for him but submission to his fate. About that time, I resigned my situation at Bicetre, without, however, renouncing the hope of being useful to this unfortunate man. In the course of that year, I had recourse to the following expedient with him. The governor, being previously informed of my project, was prepared to receive a visit from a party of my friends, who were to assume the character of delegates from the legislative body, dispatched to Bicetre, to obtain information in regard to Citizen, or upon his innocence, to pronounce upon him a sentence of acquittal. I then concerted with three other physicians whom I engaged to personate this deputation. The principal part was assigned to the eldest and gravest of them, whose appearance and manners were most calculated to command attention and respect. These commissaries, who were dressed in black robes suitable to their pretended office, ranged themselves round a table and caused the melancholic to be brought before them. One of them intorrogated him as to his profession, former conduct, the journals which he had been in the habits of reading, and other 249

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particulars respecting his patriotism. The defendant related all that he had said and done; and insisted on a definitive judgement, as he did not conceive that he was guilty of any crime. In order to make a deep impression on his imagination, the president of the delegates pronounced in a loud voice the following sentence. “In virtue of the power which has been delegated to us by the national assembly, we have entered proceedings in due form of law, against Citizen ——: and having duly examined him, touching the matter whereof he stands accused, we make our declaration accordingly. It is, therefore, by us declared, that we have found the said Citizen a truly loyal patriot; and, pronouncing his acquittal, we forbid all further proceedings against him. We furthermore order his entire enlargement and restoration to his friends. But inasmuch as he has obstinately refused to work for the last twelve months, we order his detention at Bicetre to be prolonged six months from this present time, which said six months he is to employ, with proper sentiments of gratitude, in the capacity of tailor to the house. This our sentence is entrusted to Citizen Poussin, which he is to see executed at the peril of his life.” Our commissaries then retired in silence. On the day following the patient again began to work, and, with every expression of sensibility and affection, solicited the return of his child. Having received the impulse of the above stratagem, he worked for some time unremittingly at his trade. But he had completely lost the use of his limbs from having remained so long extended upon the cold flags. His activity, however, was not of long continuance; and its remission concurring with an imprudent disclosure of the above well intended plot, his delirium returned. I now consider his case as absolutely incurable.

The art of counteracting the human passions by others of equal or superior force, an important department of medicine 99. THE doctrine in ethics of balancing the passions of men by others of equal or superior force, is not less applicable to the practice of medicine, than to the science of politics, and is probably not the only point of resemblance between the art of governing mankind and that of healing their diseases. The difference, if there be any, is in favour of medicine, which considers men individually and independent of social institutions, but notwithstanding, can, in many instances, apply no other remedies than those of not thwarting the propensities of nature, or of counterbalancing them by more powerful affections. A young man fell into melancholia and asthenia in consequence of a disappointment in love. Ariteus, whose advice was taken upon his case, could prescribe no other remedy than that of possession. Oribasis recommends the union of the sexes as a valuable remedy in cases of melancholia. Forestus supposed that severe restrictions upon the sexual propensity, might, in some instances, produce mental derangement. To arrive at the knowledge of such a cause of the malady, when it is the patient’s interest and inclination to impose upon the medical attendant, requires, however, great address and sagacity. Galen and Erasistratus have given examples of this 250

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kind, which are so striking and so well known, that it is only necessary to mention them. The spasmodic affections of women depend almost universally upon some concealed or suppressed exertion of the passions. The case of a disgraced courtier, who in consequence became melancholic, was designated by an ingenious physician “recoiled ambition.” The presentation of a captain’s commission to the soldier who first mounted the assault upon the taking of the Bastile, and who was afterwards confined as a maniac at Bicetre, would have been a treatment much more suitable to his case than bathing and pumping. A new passion is sometimes generated by some favourable circumstance, in consequence of which melancholia may be cured. A rich merchant met some inconsiderable reverses of fortune. His imagination was however so deeply impressed, that from that time he believed himself to be a ruined man, and that he had no other prospect than that of dying by hunger. No exertions were spared to convince him that he was still in possession of a very large fortune. The rich contents of his bureaus were displayed in his presence: but these he believed to be only false appearances, and his prevailing idea of extreme poverty continued to haunt and distress him. It was at the period of the disturbances excited in Germany by the reformation. What the advice and medicines of Forestus failed to produce, was effected by ardent zeal for the catholic religion. The melancholic exerted himself night and day, both by conversation and writing in defence of the rituals of the Romish church. It was not long before he was completely cured of his melancholia.

The propensity to suicide accompanying some cases of melancholia, occasionally removed by a strong emotion 100. EXPERIENCE has established the effect of some simple remedies in preventing the return of paroxysms of melancholia with a propensity to suicide. But it has likewise, and not unfrequently evinced their insufficiency, and at the same time the influence of a strong and deeply impressed emotion in producing a solid and durable change. A man, who worked at a sedentary trade, came to consult me about the end of October, 1783, for dyspepsia and great depression of spirits. He knew of no cause to which he could ascribe his indisposition. His unhappiness at length encreased to such a pitch that he felt an invincible propensity to throw himself into the Seine. Unequivocal symptoms of a disordered stomach induced me to prescribe some opening medicines, and for some days occasional draughts of whey. His bowels were effectually opened, and he suffered but little from his propensity self-destruction, during the remainder of the winter. Fine weather appeared to restore him completely, and his cure was considered as perfect. Towards the decline of autumn, however, his melancholia returned. Nature assumed to him a dark and dismal aspect, and his propensity to throw himself into the Seine returned with redoubled force. The only circumstance that in any degree restrained the horrid impulse, was the idea of leaving unprotected a wife and child, whom he tenderly loved. This struggle between the feelings of nature and 251

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his delirious phrenzy was not permitted to continue long; for the most unequivocal proofs soon after appeared of his having executed his fatal project. A literary gentleman, who was given to the pleasures of the table, and who was lately recovered from a tertain fever,3 experienced in the season of autumn all the horrors of the propensity to suicide. He weighed with shocking calmness the choice of various methods to accomplish the deed of death. A visit which he paid to London, appears to have developed, with a new degree of energy, his profound melancholy and his immovable resolution to abridge his term of life. He chose an advanced hour of the night, and went towards one of the bridges of that capital for the purpose of precipitating himself into the Thames. But at the moment of his arrival at the destined spot, he was attacked by some robbers. Though he had little or no money about him, he felt extremely indignant at this treatment, and used every effort to make his escape; which, however, he did not accomplish before he had been exceedingly terrified. Left by his assailants, he returned to his lodgings, having forgot the original object of his sally. This rencounter seems to have operated a thorough revolution in the state of his mind. His cure was so complete that, though he has since been a resident of Paris for ten years, and has subsisted frequently upon scanty and precarious resources, he has not been since tormented by disgust with life. This is a case of melancholic vesania, which yielded to the sudden and unforeseen impression of terror. I shall add another case of melancholia, accompanied by a propensity to suicide, which yielded to a remedy of an analogous nature. It is that of a watchmaker, who was for a long time harrassed by the propensity in question. He once so far gave way to the horrid impulse, that he withdrew to his house in the country, where he expected to meet no obstacle to the execution of his project. Here he one day took a pistol and retired to an adjoining wood, with the full intent of perpetrating the fatal deed: but missing his aim, the contents of the piece entered his cheek. Violent haemorrhage ensued. He was discovered and conveyed to his own house. During the healing of the wound, which was long protracted, an important change took place in the state of his mind. Whether from the agitation produced by the above tragic attempt, from the enormous loss of blood which it occasioned, or from any other cause, he never afterwards shewed the least inclination to put an end to his existence. This case, though by no means an example for imitation, is well calculated to shew that sudden terror or any other lively or deep impression may divert and even destroy the fatal propensity to suicide

Notes 1 Hôtel Dieu was a hospital; Bicetre was a hospital and asylum. 2 1797. 3 Type of malaria.

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35 JOHN G. M ILLI NGEN (1782–1849/62), THE PAS S I ONS ; OR MIND AND M ATTER (London: John and Daniel A. Darling, 1848), pp. 324–335

John G. Millingen was a British army surgeon, the child of Dutch immigrants who spent his childhood during the French Revolution in Paris. After retiring from the military, he worked in a number of asylums, not least as Resident Physician of the County of Middlesex Lunatic Asylum, and later as the owner of a private asylum. He wrote widely on a range of topics; his works on mental health were only a small component of these and, he claimed, were based on his observations on the ‘treatment of mental affections’ during his practice. His book on The Passions, in an earlier, less successful edition titled, Mind and Matter, looks first at hereditary disease and the role of the nervous system and mind, before turning to the ‘passions’, where after defining their nature, he devotes separate chapters to nine different emotions. The excerpt below comes from his chapter on anger, and draws together ideas from classical theory and contemporary literature and philosophy, with his own observations of such behaviour amongst the ‘insane’. Pinel’s influence is visible in his use of terms like mania and his contribution of personal observations, but this text also draws on a longer and more widespread scientific tradition where empirical evidence was less central than engagement with philosophical and moral considerations. It highlights the competing frameworks through which emotion, especially in the context of mental ill-health, were interpreted by physicians. … ANGER is an instinctive passion observable in all animals. It arises from any interruption of their comfortable state, any disturbance of their mental or physical repose; any circumstance, in short, that can, directly or indirectly, interfere with their enjoyment of life or of pleasure—and in mankind, from any observation or expression that can militate against the good opinion he entertains of himself. The ancients, in calling this passion choler, attributed it to the agitation of the bile, χολή; hence they called it bilious passion, and no doubt bilious temperaments 253

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are more exposed to its influence than any other. The sanguineous, it is true, are susceptible of violent fits of anger, described by Horace as the ira furor brevis, but the malevolent, the vindictive anger, is more observable in the bilious and the nervous, for they are more likely to be influenced by nervous excitability. Anger is uncontrollable by reason, inasmuch as its invasion is generally sudden, and arising from peculiar exciting circumstances. Philosophers may descant very wisely on what they call the sedatives of anger. It arises from an intuitive impulse, various in its excitation according to temperament, and bids defiance to every ethical rule that wisdom can seek to inculcate. Paley may submit to the consideration of the irascible “the indecency of extravagant anger—the inconvenience and irretrievable misconduct into which our irascibility has sometimes betrayed us—the friendships it has lost us—the distresses and embarrassments in which we have been involved by it, and the sore repentance which, on account of others, it always costs us.”1 Most unquestionably, if man could enter into all this calm consideration before the invasion of a paroxysm of anger, he might calm himself down to a placid mood. The only cure for anger is the exhaustion of excitability, the collapse, that succeeds it: “Anger is like A full-hot horse! who being allowed his way, Self-mettle tires him.”2 Seneca has truly said, that “Anger is like rain, which breaks itself upon what it falls.” Aristotle looked upon this passion as the desire to retaliate any injury we may have received; and again, Seneca defines it as a violent emotion of the soul, which willingly impels us to seek revenge. There is no doubt that anger produces a fearful sensation of injury, and an ardent desire of revenge. Hatred is a chronic anger, which fosters a spirit of vengeance, that may be considered the crisis of hate. Anger will vary in its symptoms according to our temperaments. Thus we may observe what is called red anger, and pale anger. The first is of a violent and explosive nature; it generally affects the sanguineous: the circulation of the blood is accelerated—the breathing is difficult and panting—the features flushed—the swollen veins are visibly enlarged under the integuments—the eyes flash fire and become injected with blood—the lips, contracted, expose the teeth—the voice becomes hoarse—the hearing difficult—foam will occasionally issue from the mouth; in short, the features assume the character of mania, arising evidently from a congestion of blood on the brain; and under the violence of the paroxysm the angry man will know no restraint, and is indeed, for the time being, a maniac, indiscriminate in his fury, and perfectly uncontrollable. Such was the case of Charles VI. of France, who, being violently incensed against the Duke of Bretagne, and burning with a spirit of malice and revenge, could neither eat, drink, nor sleep, for many days and nights, and at length became furiously mad; as he was riding on horseback, drawing his sword, and striking promiscuously every one who approached him. 254

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During this paroxysm of anger, the violence of an infuriated man is such that he will break and destroy every thing about him. On this subject Dr. Reid3 and Dugald Stewart have entertained a singular notion, and fancied that in these outrageous acts the angry man thinks that the inanimate objects that he attacks are alive. The following are his words:—“The disposition which we sometimes feel, when under the influence of instinctive resentment, to wreak our vengeance upon inanimate objects, has suggested to Dr. Reid a very curious query—whether, upon such an occasion, we may have a momentary belief that the object is alive? for my own part, I confess my inclination to answer this question in the affirmative.”4 Now, with all due respect to the opinion of these psychologists, daily experience proves the fallacy of this doctrine; for although such furious persons may break and demolish pots and pans, bottles and glasses, chairs and tables, they rarely expend their fury on bystanders, who would not exactly remain as quiet as crockery or furniture, but have recourse to retaliation with capital and interest. True, such men may beat their wives and their children, but they are more cautious with strangers; and their outrageous conduct I consider as an indication of a cowardly desire to seek revenge, rather than a resentful spirit to avenge wrongs or insults; and these outbreaks are nothing more than a manifestation of power, that mankind is ever proud of possessing and displaying. And I truly must again differ in opinion with the philanthropic Dugald Stewart, when he maintains that a man wishes to punish an offender with his own hands, owing to “a secret wish of convincing our enemy, by the magnanimity of our conduct, how much he had mistaken the object of his hatred.” I must confess that I should feel much hesitation in exposing myself to this chance of a benevolent display of magnanimity on the part of an infuriated person. In these attacks, the brain, the heart, the lungs suffer under congestion, and they will frequently occasion apoplexy, epilepsy, convulsions, paralysis, inflammation of the brain and its membrane; and insanity, hernia, the rupture of a blood-vessel, or aneurism, have often resulted from this fearful paroxysm. In pale anger, the liver, the digestive organs are more engaged, and jaundice, inflammation of the liver, bilious dejections are frequently ushered in. In this anger, the circulation is languid, the pulse small and irregular, the breathing short and oppressed, a cold perspiration oozes from every pore, the teeth are locked or chattering, the eyes fixed and glassy, the features pale and contracted, a general tremour shakes the whole frame, and the individual sufferer—for such he is— appears over whelmed by the exaltation of his passion; he can scarcely articulate a word, stammers his execrations, and seems to seek for language sufficiently energetic and bitter to express his wrath; his countenance is so altered by the violence of his emotions, that he is scarcely recognisable. Milton has power fully described this physiognomic change in the unruly fermentation of the mind: “Thus while he spake, each passion dimm’d his face, Thrice chang’d with pale ire, envy, and despair; Which marr’d his borrow’d visage, and betray’d Him counterfeit.”5 255

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What a description of a detected hypocrite! Thomson has also depicted this condition in vivid colours: “Senseless and deformed, Convulsive Anger storms at large, or pale And silent, settles into fell revenge.”6 Pale anger is more frequently excited by offended pride and vanity, when any observation tends to diminish our self-conceit and estimation, or affect our influence in society: such is the irritation of the literary man, if he hears his production disparaged; of the soldier, if any doubt appears to be entertained of his valour. “When men,” to use Bacon’s words, “are ingenious in picking out circumstances of contempt,”7 all these sentiments urge us to resentment, and to a desire of obtaining revenge. Our revengeful feelings, or rather their impulsion to revengeful action, may be restrained by reason, but the principle itself is beyond our control; it is an instinctive, a conservative passion, and every animal will seek to destroy an enemy in self-defence, for present, for future security. Nature has gifted every living creature with defensive and offensive weapons: we do not deliberate on the justice or the injustice of our cause; and even when our resentment is not legitimate, it will endure for a considerable time, for man not only feels hurt by the injuries he receives from others, but is even angry with himself for having been in the wrong; and vanity will make him unwilling to acknowledge his error, as it would imply a want of judgment: and our experience betrays more galling vexation in being lowered in our own estimation, which is certain, than in the opinion of others, which our self-sufficiency induces us to question. As La Rochefoucauldt justly observes, “Lorsque notre haîne est trop vive, elle nous met au-dessous de ceux que nous haissons.”8 This is an insupportable moral degradation, since it compels us to admit the superiority of those whom we would wish to degrade in the eyes of the universe. When we really have cause to entertain resentment and hatred, it will be more or less a permanent passion, since we more readily forget acts of kindness than injuries; and I much fear, that when we forgive an enemy, our generosity is more to be attributed to the consideration of having sufficiently triumphed over him, and satisfied our resentment, than to any magnanimous sacrifice on our part. No doubt, the forgiveness of injuries is a most noble exertion; but pride and vanity will prevent us from following the impulse of a benevolent disposition, and, like the implacable deities, they will not relinquish the victims that are brought to their altars for immolation. Hatred is as natural a propensity as love: it is ruled by the laws of attraction and repulsion; it is one of the distinctive attributes of man; it is rarely exhibited in the lower animals of the same species. Their strife is ephemeral; they entertain no rancorous feelings towards each other, except in some particular cases of marked aversion, and that is to be attributed to jealousy resulting from domestication. But animals in their natural state seem to forget an injury when the contest that follows 256

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it is over; when their wants are satisfied, they cease to entertain any hostile sentiment. In man, on the contrary, hatred has been transmitted, even amongst uncivilized hordes, from one generation to another; and the family of the savage inherit his bow and arrows, his club, his animosities, and his thirst of revenge. Indian tribes have been known to travel considerable distances to seek out an enemy; and in Ireland the hatred of what are called “factions” has existed for centuries. Revenge, to use Otway’s language, appears to be “Th’ attribute of the gods; they stamp’d it With their great image on our natures!”9 When revenge cannot be obtained by honourable and fair means—when the person who has inflicted the injury is placed beyond the reach of ordinary vengeance, and no retribution can be obtained, no legal punishment inflicted—then will this spirit gnaw the very vitals of the injured, and they will consider any means legitimate that can attain their vindictive ends. “All stratagems are lawful in revenge: Promise, deceive, betray, or break your trust:Who rights his honour, cannot be unjust.”10 The difficulty of obtaining redress, or satisfying our injured feelings, adds to the original injury; and the man who would have been satisfied with a measured satisfaction, becomes implacable, and reflection, instead of calming the irritation, only aggravates the consuming passion. Anger is attended with intense excitement—a distressing sensation of oppression, of suffocation, of convulsive spasms. Hatred will also occasion much anguish, and an intolerable restlessness of mind and of body: but revenge is the crisis of the malady: it is a gratifying enjoyment, and an injured man feels that he could die satisfied after he has obtained it, exclaiming, “’Tis brave and noble when the falling weight Of my own ruin crushes those I hate.”11 That these sentiments are reprehensible, in a religious and a moral point of view, there cannot be the least doubt, and happy are those who can withstand their baneful influence; but, generally speaking, their invasion is no more under the control of reason or of the mind, than any of our other instinctive appetites. Time and reflection may convince us both of their evil tendencies, and the necessity of not yielding to their impulse; but such is our nature, that we will more readily forgive an injury inflicted on our affections, our fortunes, and even our good name, than any attempt to humble our pride and our vanity, and our self importance and conceit. This resentment is what several psychologists have termed “deliberate resentment,” being more or less prompted by reflection; whereas “instinctive resentment” arises from the immediate retaliation on an offending party—and in 257

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this passion there is less of malevolence than in a calculated system of revenge: at the same time, there can be no doubt that instinctive resentment will become deliberate when the cause that excited it continues to act, or the nature of the injury is more or less permanent, and bears the character of having been intentional. Howbeit, all these violent passions are ushered in by anger or by indignation, two principles of action similar in a great degree, although indignation may be a more lofty sentiment, which induces the offended to despise the attacks of a worthless and contemptible enemy; and this apparent magnanimity will often arise from the conviction, that these attacks will not only be harmless, but will very likely prove prejudicial to the offending party.

Notes 1 William Paley, The Principles of Moral and Political Philosophy (1785), chapter on anger. 2 William Shakespeare, Henry VIII, Act 1 Scene 1, lines 134–36. 3 Thomas Reid (1710–1796). 4 Dugald Stewart, The Philosophy of the Active and Moral Powers of Man (1828). 5 John Milton, Paradise Lost (1667). 6 James Thomson, The Seasons (1730). 7 Francis Bacon, Of Anger (1625). 8 François La Rochefoucauld, The Moral Maxims and Reflections (1665): When our hatred is too bitter it places us below whom we hate. 9 Thomas Otway, Venice Preserved (1682). 10 Edward Ravenscroft, The Italian Husband (1697). 11 John Denham, The Sophy (1641).

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36 C HA RLES DARWIN (1 8 0 9 – 1 8 8 2 ) , THE EXPRESSIONS OF EM OTI ON IN MAN AND AN I M ALS (London: John Murray, 1872), pp. 239–249

Charles Darwin was an English biologist who was particularly renowned for his contributions to the theory of evolution. In Expressions of Emotions, Darwin argues that many dimensions of emotion are biological and universal not just across humans, but also other significant mammals. He brings together a broad range of observational evidence from anthropological studies across the globe (largely written by other Europeans), and zoology to suggest that people, and some animals, move their bodies and their faces in similar ways to display the emotions they feel within the body/mind. Such similarity in physical expression enabled humans to communicate their emotions to each other, and supplemented language. Darwin suggested that these shared expressions evidenced that all mankind had evolved from a shared ancestor, and were overlaid with cultural expressions and emotional management that reflected a community or individual’s level of civilisation. His evidence is wide-ranging, pulled from a broad array of cultures, and includes photographs and historic observations in art and literature (such as by Shakespeare), although he uses the latter to a smaller degree than previous authors. Many of his observations are supported by footnotes to the appropriate academic text, suggestive of this work as a piece of scientific literature. The book begins with several chapters on the general principle of expressions, and how they evolved and work, before two chapters on emotions and animals. The remainder of the book is divided into eight chapters on different emotions (which overlap significantly with Millingen’s choices in source 35), and a conclusion. The excerpt below is taken from his chapter on hatred and anger. … IF we have suffered or expect to suffer some wilful injury from a man, or if he is in any way offensive to us, we dislike him; and dislike easily rises into hatred.1 Such feelings, if experienced in a moderate degree, are not clearly expressed by any movement of the body or features, excepting perhaps by a certain gravity of behaviour, or by some ill-temper. Few individuals, however, can long reflect about

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a hated person, without feeling and exhibiting signs of indignation or rage. But if the offending person be quite insignificant, we experience merely disdain or contempt. If, on the other hand, he is all-powerful, then hatred passes into terror, as when a slave thinks about a cruel master, or a savage about a bloodthirsty malignant deity. Most of our emotions are so closely connected with their expression, that they hardly exist if the body remains passive—the nature of the expression depending in chief part on the nature of the actions which have been habitually performed under this particular state of the mind. A man, for instance, may know that his life is in the extremest peril, and may strongly desire to save it; yet, as Louis XVI. said, when surrounded by a fierce mob, “Am I afraid? feel my pulse.” So a man may intensely hate another, but until his bodily frame is affected, he cannot be said to be enraged. Rage—I have already had occasion to treat of this emotion in the third chapter, when discussing the direct influence of the excited sensorium on the body, in combination with the effects of habitually associated actions. Rage exhibits itself in the most diversified manner. The heart and circulation are always affected; the face reddens or becomes purple, with the veins on the forehead and neck distended. The reddening of the skin has been observed with the copper-coloured Indians of South America, and even, as it is said, on the white cicatrices left by old wounds on negroes. Monkeys also redden from passion. With one of my own infants, under four months old, I repeatedly observed that the first symptom of an approaching passion was the rushing of the blood into his bare scalp. On the other hand, the action of the heart is sometimes so much impeded by great rage, that the countenance becomes pallid or livid, and not a few men with heart-disease have dropped down dead under this powerful emotion. The respiration is likewise affected; the chest heaves, and the dilated nostrils quiver. As Tennyson writes, “sharp breaths of anger puffed her fairy nostrils out.” Hence we have such expressions as “breathing out vengeance,” and “fuming with anger.” The excited brain gives strength to the muscles, and at the same time energy to the will. The body is commonly held erect ready for instant action, but sometimes it is bent forward towards the offending person, with the limbs more or less rigid. The mouth is generally closed with firmness, showing fixed determination, and the teeth are clenched or ground together. Such gestures as the raising of the arms, with the fists clenched, as if to strike the offender, are common. Few men in a great passion, and telling some one to begone, can resist acting as if they intended to strike or push the man violently away. The desire, indeed, to strike often becomes so intolerably strong, that inanimate objects are struck or dashed to the ground; but the gestures frequently become altogether purposeless or frantic. Young children, when in a violent rage roll on the ground on their backs or bellies, screaming, kicking, scratching, or biting everything within reach. So it is, as I hear from Mr. Scott, with Hindoo children; and, as we have seen, with the young of the anthropomorphous apes. But the muscular system is often affected in a wholly different way; for trembling is a frequent consequence of extreme rage. The paralysed lips then refuse to 260

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obey the will, “and the voice sticks in the throat;” or it is rendered loud, harsh, and discordant. If there be much and rapid speaking, the mouth froths. The hair sometimes bristles; but I shall return to this subject in another chapter, when I treat of the mingled emotions of rage and terror. There is in most cases a strongly-marked frown on the forehead; for this follows from the sense of anything displeasing or difficult, together with concentration of mind. But sometimes the brow, instead of being much contracted and lowered, remains smooth, with the glaring eyes kept widely open. The eyes are always bright, or may, as Homer expresses it, glisten with fire. They are sometimes bloodshot, and are said to protrude from their sockets—the result, no doubt, of the head being gorged with blood, as shown by the veins being distended. According to Gratiolet, the pupils are always contracted in rage, and I hear from Dr. Crichton Browne that this is the case in the fierce delirium of meningitis; but the movements of the iris under the influence of the different emotions is a very obscure subject. Shakespeare sums up the chief characteristics of rage as follows: – “In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man, As modest stillness and humility; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger: Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To his full height! On, on, you noblest English.” Henry V., act iii. Sc.1. The lips are sometimes protruded during rage in a manner, the meaning of which I do not understand, unless it depends on our descent from some ape-like animal. Instances have been observed, not only with Europeans, but with the Australians and Hindoos. The lips, however, are much more commonly retracted, the grinning or clenched teeth being thus exposed. This has been noticed by almost every one who has written on expression. The appearance is as if the teeth were uncovered, ready for seizing or tearing an enemy, though there may be no intention of acting in this manner. Mr. Dyson Lacy has seen this grinning expression with the Australians, when quarrelling, and so has Gaika with the Kafirs of South America. Dickens, in speaking of an atrocious murderer who had just been caught, and was surrounded by a furious mob, describes “the people as jumping up one behind another, snarling with their teeth, and making at him like wild beasts.” Every one who has had much to do with young children must have seen how naturally they take to biting, when in a passion. It seems as instinctive in them as in young crocodiles, who snap their little jaws as soon as they emerge from the egg. A grinning expression and the protrusion of the lips appear sometimes to go together. A close observer says that he has seen many instances of intense hatred 261

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(which can hardly be distinguished from rage, more or less suppressed) in Orientals, and once in an elderly English woman. In all these cases there “was a grin, not a scowl—the lips lengthening, the cheeks settling downwards, the eyes halfclosed, whilst the brow remained perfectly calm.” This retraction of the lips and uncovering of the teeth during paroxysms of rage, as if to bite the offender, is so remarkable, considering how seldom the teeth are used by men in fighting, that I inquired from Dr. J. Crichton Browne whether the habit was common in the insane whose passions are unbridled. He informs me that he has repeatedly observed it both with the insane and idiotic, and has given me the following illustrations:— Shortly before receiving my letter, he witnessed an uncontrollable outbreak of anger and delusive jealousy in an insane lady. At first she vituperated her husband, and whilst doing so foamed at the mouth. Next she approached close to him with compressed lips, and a virulent set frown. Then she drew back her lips, especially the corners of the upper lip, and showed her teeth, at the same time aiming a vicious blow at him. A second case is that of an old soldier, who, when he is requested to conform to the rules of the establishment, gives way to discontent, terminating in fury. He commonly begins by asking Dr. Browne whether he is not ashamed to treat him in such a manner. He then swears and blasphemes, paces up and down, tosses his arms wildly about, and menaces any one near him. At last, as his exasperation culminates, he rushes up towards Dr. Browne with a peculiar sidelong movement, shaking his doubled fist, and threatening destruction. Then his upper lip may be seen to be raised, especially at the corners, so that his huge canine teeth are exhibited. He hisses forth his curses through his set teeth, and his whole expression assumes the character of extreme ferocity. A similar description is applicable to another man, excepting that he generally foams at the mouth and spits, dancing and jumping about in a strange rapid manner, shrieking out his maledictions in a shrill falsetto voice. Dr. Brown also informs me of the case of an epileptic idiot, incapable of independent movements, and who spends the whole day in playing with some toys; but his temper is morose and easily roused into fierceness. When any one touches his toys, he slowly raises his head from its habitual downward position, and fixes his eyes on the offender, with a tardy yet angry scowl. If the annoyance be repeated, he draws back his thick lips and reveals a prominent row of hideous fangs (large canines being especially noticeable), and then makes a quick and cruel clutch with his open hand at the offending person. The rapidity of this clutch, as Dr. Browne remarks, is marvellous in a being ordinarily so torpid that he takes about fifteen seconds, when attracted by any noise, to turn his head from one side to the other. If, when thus incensed, a handkerchief, book, or other article, be placed into his hands, he drags it to his mouth and bites it. Mr. Nicol has likewise described to me two cases of insane patients, whose lips are retracted during paroxysms of rage. Dr. Maudsley, after detailing various strange animal like traits in idiots, asks whether these are not due to the reappearance of primitive instincts—“a faint echo from a far-distant past, testifying to a kinship which man has almost outgrown.” He adds, that as ever human brain passes, in the course of its development, through 262

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the same stages as those occurring in the lower vertebrate animals, and as the brain of an idiot is in an arrested condition, we may presume that it “will manifest its most primitive functions, and no higher functions.” Dr. Maudsley thinks that the same view may be extended to the brain in its degenerated condition in some insane patients; and asks, whence come “the savage snarl, the destructive disposition, the obscene language, the wild howl, the offensive habits, displayed by some of the insane? Why should a human being, deprived of his reason, ever become so brutal in character, as some do, unless he has the brute nature within him?” This question must, as it would appear, be answered in the affirmative. Anger, indignation.—These states of the mind differ from rage only in degree, and there is no marked distinction in their characteristic signs. Under moderate anger the action of the heart is a little increased, the colour heightened, and the eyes become bright. The respiration is likewise a little hurried; and as all the muscles serving for this function act in association, the wings of the nostrils are somewhat raised to allow of a free indraught of air; and this is a highly characteristic sign of indignation. The mouth is commonly compressed, and there is almost always a frown on the brow. Instead of the frantic gestures of extreme rage, an indignant man unconsciously throws himself into an attitude ready for attacking or striking his enemy, whom he will perhaps scan from head to foot in defiance. He carries his head erect, with his chest well expanded, and the feet planted firmly on the ground. He holds his arms in various positions, with one or both elbows squared, or with the arms rigidly suspended by his sides. With Europeans the fists are commonly clenched. The figures 1 and 2 in Plate VI. are fairly good representations of men simulating indignation. Any one may see in a mirror, if he will vividly imagine that he has been insulted and demands an explanation in an angry tone of voice, that he suddenly and unconsciously throws himself into some such attitude. Rage, anger, and indignation are exhibited in nearly the same manner throughout the world; and the following descriptions may be worth giving as evidence of this, and as illustrations of some of the foregoing remarks. There is, however, an exception with respect to clenching the fists, which seems confined chiefly to the men who fight with their fists. With the Australians only one of my informants has seen the fists clenched. All agree about the body being held erect; and all, with two exceptions, state that the brows are heavily contracted. Some of them allude to the firmly-compressed mouth, the distended nostrils, and flashing eyes. According to the Rev. Mr. Taplin, rage, with the Australians, is expressed by the lips being protruded, the eyes being widely open; and in the case of the women by their dancing about and casting dust into the air. Another observer speaks of the native men, when enraged, throwing their arms wildly about. I have received similar accounts, except as to the clenching of the fists, in regard to the Malays of the Malacca peninsula, the Abyssinians, and the natives of South Africa. So it is with the Dakota Indians of North America; and, according to Mr. Matthews, they then hold their heads erect, frown, and often stalk away with long strides. Mr. Bridges states that the Fuegians, when enraged, frequently stamp on the ground, walk distractedly about, sometimes cry and grow pale. The Rev. Mr. 263

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Stack watched a New Zealand man and woman quarrelling, and made the following entry in his note-book: “Eyes dilated, body swayed violently backwards and forwards, head inclined forwards, fists clenched, now thrown behind the body, now directed towards each other’s faces.” Mr. Swinhoe says that my description agrees with what he has seen of the Chinese, excepting that an angry man generally inclines his body towards his antagonist, and pointing at him, pours forth a volley of abuse. Lastly, with respect to the natives of India, Mr. J. Scott has sent me a full description of their gestures and expression when enraged. Two low-caste Bengalees disputed about a loan. At first they were calm, but soon grew furious and poured forth the grossest abuse on each other’s relations and progenitors for many generations past. Their gestures were very different from those of Europeans; for though their chests were expanded and shoulders squared, their arms remained rigidly suspended, with the elbows turned inwards and the hands alternately clenched and opened. Their shoulders were often raised high, and then again lowered. They looked fiercely at each other from under their lowered and strongly wrinkled brows, and their protruded lips were firmly closed. They approached each other, with heads and necks stretched forwards, and pushed, scratched, and grasped at each other. This protrusion of the head and body seems a common gesture with the enraged; and I have noticed it with degraded English women whilst quarrelling violently in the streets. In such cases it may be presumed that neither party expects to receive a blow from the other. A Bengalee employed in the Botanic Gardens was accused, in the presence of Mr. Scott, by the native overseer of having stolen a valuable plant. He listened silently and scornfully to the accusation; his attitude erect, chest expanded, mouth closed, lips protruding, eyes firmly set and penetrating. He then defiantly maintained his innocence, with upraised and clenched hands, his head being now pushed forwards, with the eyes widely open and eyebrows raised. Mr. Scott also watched two Mechis, in Sikhim, quarrelling about their share of payment. They soon got into a furious passion, and then their bodies became less erect, with their heads pushed forwards; they made grimaces at each other; their shoulders were raised; their arms rigidly bent inwards at the elbows, and their hands spasmodically closed, but not properly clenched. They continually approached and retreated from each other, and often raised their arms as if to strike, but their hands were open, and no blow was given. Mr. Scott made similar observations on the Lepchas whom he often saw quarrelling, and he noticed that they kept their arms rigid and almost parallel to their bodies, with the hands pushed somewhat backwards and partially closed, but not clenched.

Note 1 This text has significant footnotes which have been excluded here. They largely contain references to other scientific literature.

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37 AN TOINETTE BLACKW ELL (1825–1921), SEXES THROUGHOUT NATURE (New York: G.P. Putnam, 1875), pp. 62–83

Antoinette Blackwell, née Brown, was the first woman to be ordained as a Protestant minister in the United States, an abolitionist and women’s rights activist, and writer in the fields of theology, science and philosophy. Inspired by the works of Darwin and Herbert Spencer (1820–1903), she nonetheless thought that their interpretation of evolution was shaped by their patriarchal reading of the evidence. Instead, and notably in Sexes Throughout Nature, Blackwell argued that men and women had evolved with different functions but were fully equal, and that this was supported by the science. Both sexual desire and parental love, as an instinct, was significant to explanations in evolutionary theory, and, as can be seen in the excerpt below, Blackwell argues that studying a variety of animals (including fish and reptiles) suggested that sexual love and parental love were two critical emotions that could evolve equally in the male or female of the species, and that both were necessary for human survival. While her acceptance that female humans were evolved for parental love, and that sexual love was a male attribute, was equally inflected by cultural gender norms as the work of Darwin and Spencer, nonetheless Blackwell was part of an ongoing tradition of female science that sought to challenge patriarchal assumptions. Her work also provides insight into how ideas of love were read against biological behaviours. … That all Evolution has been carried forward by small successive stages, can hardly be doubted by many persons who will devote the necessary attention to the accumulative evidence on this point. But that all this has been accomplished without intelligent plan or pre-vision, certainly is not a theory essential to the hypothesis of Evolution. On the contrary, that Nature, as we know it, could have originated, otherwise than through the natural creation or adaptation of a cooperative constitution of things, co-ordinating all substances, sentient and unsentient, is, to my apprehension, utterly incredible. Nowhere is there higher evidence of Design, and of the existence of a true sentient force co-operative in every organism, than in the wondrous instincts of insect life. 265

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But, be this as it may—for these subjects are not now under discussion—all the accessories, physical and psychical, which accompany female instincts in the invertebrates (parental love) must be considered as fairly equal to correlative male instincts (sexual love). The one impels to the initiation, the other to the preservation, of offspring; the one leads to vivid, concentrated impulses; the other to calmer, self-forgetting, steady affection: both united, to the higher and higher development of the race. We need only compare one such picture of instinctive parental love, as that drawn by Professor Agassiz,1 of the common horse-hair worm, sewing herself like a living threaded needle again and again through the mass of eggs she was trying to protect, when they were successively broken up and taken from her, with Mr. Darwin’s repeated citations of courtship, as a strong phase of Evolution. We shall comprehend that the more placid love of offspring is an equivalent equally needed in combination in all higher development, male and female; and everywhere accompanied with at least as much intelligence in its manifestations. The great majority of the “homes without hands,” among the highest evidences that we have of animal intelligence, as expended in their construction, are in whole or in part the work of females. The undeveloped female constructs the cell of the bee, and probably of all kindred species; and birds work together in nest-building, the little mother generally taking upon herself the larger share of duty. It requires a great amount of male surplus activity, to be expended physically in motion and psychically in emotion, as well as a good deal of extra ornamentation and brilliancy of coloring, to balance the extra direct and indirect nurture, the love, and the ingenuity which the mother birds, and even the insects, bestow upon their young. Fervor of feeling undoubtedly has something to do with brilliancy of coloring. This is shown in the nuptial plumage of many birds, and in the vivid colors, more or less temporary, in higher animals. Dark-colored and bright-colored individuals in all species, man included, are of a more excitable temperament than the light-colored individuals; and, carefully comparing whole varieties of the dark and light-colored in the same species, the rule is equally universal. The African and the pure Caucasian are, perhaps, the two extremes as to fervor of temperament among human beings; but where the complexity of characters is so great, as among mankind, a direct comparison in these respects is often impossible; yet, in a general way, other things equal, the rule holds beyond a question. Moreover, upon the principle of the due balance and division of the functions in the higher stages of evolution, in the human race, fervor of feeling, or quickness of general sensibility, must be regarded rather as a feminine than as a masculine character. As Mr. Darwin has pointed out, women are rather brighter-colored than men, though there is no considerable difference in this respect, as between one sex and the other. Nor should there be any in sustenance of our theory; since against the wider or higher sensibility of the female, must be placed sexual fervor, which, through all evolution has remained characteristically male. On this plane, therefore, comparisons must be made when treating of the relations of color, not between the sexes, but between the lighter and darker races and individuals. 266

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Below man, more especially in the herbivora, in birds and in insects, fervor of feeling and brightness of color are in such direct relations that they everywhere rise and fall together. The males are greatly the superiors in the psychical and the physical expressions of the same related fact. Individuals differ from each other in each sex. I cannot offer direct data to prove that the more vigorous and excitable bird or quadruped, in the same sex, is also the more brilliantly colored; but I appeal to the direct observation of every reader to sustain me in the assertion that, other things equal, this is a universal law. We see it in all our domestic animals. The most active and thriving are sure to be the brightest, the most symmetrical. Such a result would arise, also, from indirect causation; for, all acquirements being transmitted equally to offspring of both sexes, in the females, the distinctive masculine character of brighter coloring would of course tend to develop most readily and fully in the more vigorous. The facts sustain the theory. It has been supposed that color in the petals and other parts of a flower is directly related to the degree of heat evolved during the flowering process. It is entirely certain that color, under all circumstances, is directly related to rates and amounts of motion under the forms of light and heat, more especially the former. But in organized life, motion and emotion are but two phases of the same process. or at least are something closely akin to this in relation. Then is sexual selection more needed in accounting for the brilliant plumage of birds, than for the color of the red blood in their veins, or for the bright yellow and pure white of their eggs, and the characteristic brilliant mottling of many eggshells? If this form of selection could not have operated in producing the almost matchless tintings and orderly harmonies of color in various sea-shells, or in flowers and fruits, then why insist upon its activity in butterflies, birds, quadrupeds? They have a sense of color, doubtless, but they evince a higher sense of complemental attractions, dependent upon influences much more fundamental than color—a fact which Mr. Darwin has abundantly recognized. With similar influences we are all familiar in human experience; for beauty and strength, however attractive, when weighed in the balance with other qualities, are often found wanting. We know that all the darker-colored fruits have more flavor of the special kind peculiar to them than the light-colored varieties. Take the light and dark cherries; the white, red, and black currants; the yellow, red, and black raspberries, or any other of the earth’s numerous berries and larger fruits in illustration. I think it will be found, also, that the highly-colored fruit-bearers are the most vigorous and hardy growers, and that color is largely related to vigor of condition, and to general activity of functions; and hence, that the males of all beings, as less directly related to the nutrition of the young, can better afford to become brightly colored; can better afford to entail this added quality upon their offspring, to the greater beautifying of the world. On the principle of the equivalence of the sexes, superior brightness of color should be a true masculine character among all the lower classes of beings. We are prepared, then, to return again to the insects with a better comprehension of the part which color is supposed to take in the balance of their sexual characters. The superior nutritive functions, the advantages of a larger size in maturing many 267

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eggs, and the active pre-maternal instincts in the females, are regarded as equitably balanced by superior activity of muscle and greater sexual fervor, with its close relation to brilliancy of color. Each heritage, transmitted, promotes evolution. We turn from insects—many of them, in their later development, little centres of perpetual motion which consumes an immense amount of force—to fishes, their antipodes in this respect. As a class, fishes are also extremely active and rapid in their movements: but it is an activity in part counterbalanced by the density of the fluid in which they live, and therefore resulting in much less expenditure of force. Also they are cold-blooded, expending little for vital warmth; and though the larger majority of species are carnivorous, yet, living in regions where their food also abounds, they are more nearly in conditions resembling those of the terrestrial herbivores than the carnivores. Chiefly, they seize and swallow prey weaker than themselves. I cannot learn that any fish, male or female, is known to hunt or forage for another; but every individual, young and old, after it ceases to depend upon the supply of nutriment laid up for it in the egg, is compelled to obtain food for itself. The entire class has but small development of brain and of the special senses. Judging from their nervous system, they are dull of hearing, have very little of the sense of taste, but something more of smell, and still more of sight—the latter essential to them in obtaining food. The females live simply to find and appropriate food, to grow, and to produce an almost incredible multitude of eggs. Their whole stock of energy is wellnigh consumed in these directions, leaving no surplus for higher development. They manifest but little attraction towards the opposite sex, and still less affection for their own young. In size they invariably exceed the males—sometimes are even many times larger—often with no scruples against devouring their own species or their own offspring. How, then, does Nature maintain a balance between these voracious female consumers and reproducers and the smaller males? When the disparity in size is great, by selecting several males to one female. Polyandry is practised accordingly. It is a higher version of the relations of stamens and pistils. If we suppose, as with insects, that the best-nurtured ova become female, natural selection can regulate the proportions in every brood so as to maintain the equilibrium. The sexes approach each other in size among some higher fishes, and though the numerical data are very insufficient, yet such evidence as we have leads to the conclusion that they also become more nearly equal in numbers. Then all male fishes approximate the other sex in the amount of reproductive products much more closely than any other class of animals. Still, there is a large margin not yet balanced (unless it be done numerically). How, then, do male fishes utilize surplus force? Their respiratory system is relatively larger, showing their greater activity; they quarrel more as rivals, they are more brilliantly colored; a few have marked secondary characters; and in many widely different orders the parental instinct is very fairly developed in the males, though the least trace of maternal instinct in the females is rare and exceptional. ...

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There are more aids towards a continuous wider division of duties among terrestrial animals—not merely as between species and species, but between sex and sex in the same species, and function and function in the same individual. Evolution, therefore, can be promoted through the males and females alike, and perhaps even to an equal degree, among the higher orders of beings. Yet there is advance, even among fishes, physiologically and psychologically. The higher classes approach the mammalia in structure much more nearly than the lower. “Certain fishes, belonging to several families, make nests, and some of these fishes take care of their young when hatched. Both sexes of the brightlycolored Crenilabrus, massa, and melops, work together in building their nests with sea-weed, shells, etc. But the males of certain fishes do all the work, and afterwards take exclusive care of the young.” “The males of certain other fishes inhabiting South America and Ceylon, and belonging to two distinct orders, have the extraordinary habit of hatching the eggs laid by the females within their mouths or bronchial cavities.” The paternal nurses sometimes, like the Promotis, sit upon the eggs, and others are represented as “continually employed in gently leading back the young to the nest when they stray too far.” With fishes, the love and care of the young are recognized as specially male duties. The curious sea-horses (Hippocampi) and the Pipe fishes faithfully carry the young about everywhere in their pouches. These duties are usually accompanied by brilliancy of color more than at other seasons, and their bright hues are much superior to the colors of the females. Referring to the genus Solenostoma, in which “the female is much more vividly colored and spotted than the male, and she alone has a marsupial sack and hatches the eggs;” Mr. Darwin says: “It is improbable that this remarkable double inversion of character in the female should be an accidental coincidence.” He distinctly recognizes the close, relation between the accompanying emotional states, which must lead to the performance of these higher duties, and superior brilliancy of coloring. Parental instincts are also assigned to the male. ... The warm-blooded Cetaceans—whales, porpoises, dolphins, etc.—though living in the sea, like fishes, breathe through lungs like land animals; with wonderful adaptations of structure to their modes of life. These have comparatively large, active brains, and are well advanced physiologically and psychologically. But the females have progressed equally with the males, and have inherited the traditional feminine characters, with adapted complex organisms, though it seems to be almost certain that, as with other sea animals, parental love must have been originally first developed in the males. It was proved impossible to leave the mothers behind in evolution; impossible to divert functions of direct nutrition from their normal development! And parental love must precede nurture. In place of the multitudes of spawn left to chance for development, as with fishes, their few young ones are nursed with maternal care, and even with the instincts of intense and self-sacrificing affection.

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“The female Dugong produces generally only one young at a birth, and to this the mother bears such strong affection that, if the young is speared, the mother will not depart, but is sure to be taken also. The Malays consider this animal as almost typical of maternal affection. The young utter a short and sharp cry, and are said to shed tears, which are carefully preserved by the common people as a charm, under the notion that they will secure the affections of those whom they love, as they attract the mother to the young Dugong.”2 This devoted mother, in popular language still called a fish—the form fish-like, but the structure that of a mammal, with related psychological characters—is immensely higher in the scale of being than the little Stickleback, who can devour her own offspring with excellent appetite. But the male Stickleback—a nest-builder and a solicitous, careful nurse to the tender young—has these higher functions assigned to him, on our theory, as a balance to the absorbing nutritive tax demanded of the prolific female. What characters, then, have been selected in the male Dugong and other sea mammals in maintenance of the desired equilibrium? Professor Owen finds that with the Dugongs, as with the Narwhals, “the permanent tusks of the female are arrested in their growth and remain throughout life concealed within the substance of the bones and integuments.”3 He has discovered other sexual differences in dentition, apparently of much significance. As with the horns of land herbivora, they are “extra male appendages.” Whether once possessed and now lost by the females, or whether originally acquired by the males, but not developed in the females, this difference may be assigned to unlike nutritive functions; the females having but little force to expend in tuskgrowing. The many differences which may probably exist between the habits of the sexes in the sea tribes, with whose lives man has but little acquaintance, must remain largely unknown to us. That, in addition to structural modifications, the males have acquired the usual male characters of the higher animals, there is every reason to suppose. Porpoises roll, tumble, leap from the water. On a clear day the sailors on the mast-head can see the Sperm Whale leaping into the air so high that he can be observed “at a distance of six miles;” he can swim ten or twelve miles an hour. The whole whale group swim rapidly, plunge, leap, and expend much energy in their uncouth sea sports. It is physiologically certain that the males must be the more active. With the Sperm Whales it is admitted that they are also the larger, but among most of the species both sexes seem to go on growing almost indefinitely; though the males of the same ages are probably of greater bulk than the females. Dolphins and Porpoises, not attaining to the great size of the others, have relatively even larger brains. Brain consumes force and guarantees psychical development. Their intelligence is supposed to equal that of any quadruped, and it seems to be distributed between the sexes in a similar manner, the male characters being much like those of the land herbivora. All the species are highly social, often travelling together in shoals. The Manitees put their young in the centre of the tribe, to protect them from enemies.

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They and the Dugongs hold their young with the pectoral fins almost as a woman might take her child in her arms. Some whales are found in pairs, the mothers closely followed by their young, for whom they are ready to sacrifice life itself; so that to harpoon the young one is to secure the mother, who refuses to forsake it, and is easily captured. How unlike is all this to the habits of fishes, whose females, as a rule, seem to have absolutely no love of offspring, and often almost no social instincts! But then how is any mother to love a thousand or a million children in a single brood? The race must attain to superior conditions, in which it is able to propagate itself through the longer life of a few individuals, before it can be expected to rise much in psychical development; and neither the males nor the females will make any considerable amount of progress unless the other sex can be advanced also in the same proportion. In general structure, the sexes in all grades of being have always continued to be nearly identical. With the important rise in division of functions implied in warm blood and active habits, associated with higher structure, nutrition becomes more or less subordinate to many activities, physical and psychical. Locomotion, sensations, emotions, instincts, intelligence, all adapt themselves to special higher uses and modes of living.

Notes 1 Louis Agassiz (1807–1873). 2 “English Cyclopædia.” 3 Richard Owen (1804–1892).

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38 WILLIAM J AM ES (184 2–1910), THE P RI NCI PLES OF PSYCHOL OGY 2 vols (New York: Henry Holt & Co, 1890), pp. 449–454, 459–461

William James was an American psychologist and philosopher, who spent most of his career as a Professor at Harvard University. He offered one of the first courses in the US in the area of psychology and his ideas were remarkably influential in shaping the modern field. His theory on the nature of emotion, outlined below, marked a significant break in explaining the operation of emotion and has been especially important for historians of emotion. He was not entirely alone in coming to these ideas; Carl Lange (1834–1900) and Giuseppe Sergi (1841–1936) were making similar points in their own scholarship during the period. If previously emotions were defined through their categories – love, hate, anger – and scientists, philosophers and theologians concerned themselves with such categorisation and its boundaries, James rejected such ‘labels’ as significant to biological processes. Rather he suggested that emotions were labels that we placed upon our biological experience and which gave them meaning. Rather than being ‘real’ and discrete objects, emotions were infinite in variety and only given meaning later through our categorisation. This idea is significant for historians of emotions, because it allowed for a huge amount of historical and cultural variation in emotion that we could study, compare and explain – in effect, it suggested that emotions were not universals. … The trouble with the emotions in psychology is that they are regarded too much as absolutely individual things. So long as they are set down as so many eternal and sacred psychic entities, like the old immutable species in natural history, so long all that can be done with them is reverently to catalogue their separate characters, points, and effects. But if we regard them as products of more general causes (as ‘species’ are now regarded as products of heredity and variation), the mere distinguishing and cataloguing becomes of subsidiary importance. Having the goose which lays the golden eggs, the description of each egg already laid is 272

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a minor matter. Now the general causes of the emotions are indubitably physiological. Prof. O. Lange,1 of Copenhagen, in the pamphlet from which I have already quoted, published in 1885 a physiological theory of their constitution and conditioning, which I had already broached the previous year in an article in Mind. None of the criticisms which I have heard of it have made me doubt its essential truth. I will therefore devote the next few pages to explaining what it is. I shall limit myself in the first instance to what may be called the coarser emotions, grief, fear, rage, love, in which every one recognizes a strong organic reverberation, and afterwards speak of the subtler emotions, or of those whose organic reverberation is less obvious and strong.

Emotion follows upon the bodily expression in the coarser emotions at least Our natural way of thinking about these coarser emotions is that the mental perception of some fact excites the mental affection called the emotion, and that this latter state of mind gives rise to the bodily expression. My theory, on the contrary, is that the bodily changes follow directly the perception of the exciting fact, and that our feeling of the same changes as they occur is the emotion. Common-sense says, we lose our fortune, are sorry and weep; we meet a bear, are frightened and run; we are insulted by a rival, are angry and strike. The hypothesis here to be defended says that this order of sequence is incorrect, that the one mental state is not immediately induced by the other, that the bodily manifestations must first be interposed between, and that the more rational statement is that we feel sorry because we cry, angry because we strike, afraid because we tremble, and not that we cry, strike, or tremble, because we are sorry, angry, or fearful, as the case may be. Without the bodily states following on the perception, the latter would be purely cognitive in form, pale, colorless, destitute of emotional warmth. We might then see the bear, and judge it best to run, receive the insult and deem it right to strike, but we should not actually feel afraid or angry. Stated in this crude way, the hypothesis is pretty sure to meet with immediate disbelief. And yet neither many nor far-fetched considerations are required to mitigate its paradoxical character, and possibly to produce conviction of its truth. To begin with, no reader of the last two chapters will be inclined to doubt the fact that objects do excite bodily changes by a preorganized mechanism, or the farther fact that the changes are so indefinitely numerous and subtle that the entire organism may be called a sounding-board, which every change of consciousness, however slight, may make reverberate. The various permutations and combinations of which these organic activities are susceptible make it abstractly possible that no shade of emotion, however slight, should be without a bodily reverberation as unique, when taken in its totality, as is the mental mood itself. The immense number of parts modified in each emotion is what makes it so difficult for us to reproduce in cold blood the total and integral expression of any one of them. We may catch the trick with the voluntary muscles, but fail with the skin, glands, 273

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heart, and other viscera. Just as an artificially imitated sneeze lacks something of the reality, so the attempt to imitate an emotion in the absence of its normal instigating cause is apt to be rather ‘hollow.’ The next thing to be noticed is this, that every one of the bodily changes, whatsoever it be, is felt, acutely or obscurely, the moment it occurs. If the reader has never paid attention to this matter, he will be both interested and astonished to learn how many different local bodily feelings he can detect in himself as characteristic of his various emotional moods. It would be perhaps too much to expect him to arrest the tide of any strong gust of passion for the sake of any such curious analysis as this; but he can observe more tranquil states, and that may be assumed here to be true of the greater which is shown to be true of the less. Our whole cubic capacity is sensibly alive; and each morsel of it contributes its pulsations of feeling, dim or sharp, pleasant, painful, or dubious, to that sense of personality that every one of us unfailingly carries with him. It is surprising what little items give accent to these complexes of sensibility. When worried by any slight trouble, one may find that the focus of one’s bodily consciousness is the contraction, often quite inconsiderable, of the eyes and brows. When momentarily embarrassed, it is something in the pharynx that compels either a swallow, a clearing of the throat, or a slight cough; and so on for as many more instances as might be named. Our concern here being with the general view rather than with the details, I will not linger to discuss these, but, assuming the point admitted that every change that occurs must be felt, I will pass on. I now proceed to urge the vital point of my whole theory, which is this: If we fancy some strong emotion, and then try to abstract from our consciousness of it all the feelings of its bodily symptoms, we find we have nothing left behind, no ‘mind-stuff’ out of which the emotion can be constituted, and that a cold and neutral state of intellectual perception is all that remains. It is true that, although most people when asked say that their introspection verifies this statement, some persist in saying theirs does not. Many cannot be made to understand the question. When you beg them to imagine away every feeling of laughter and of tendency to laugh from their consciousness of the ludicrousness of an object, and then to tell you what the feeling of its ludicrousness would be like, whether it be anything more than the perception that the object belongs to the class ‘funny,’ they persist in replying that the thing proposed is a physical impossibility, and that they always must laugh if they see a funny object. Of course the task proposed is not the practical one of seeing a ludicrous object and annihilating one’s tendency to laugh. It is the purely speculative one of subtracting certain elements of feeling from an emotional state supposed to exist in its fulness, and saying what the residual elements are. I cannot help thinking that all who rightly apprehend this problem will agree with the proposition above laid down. What kind of an emotion of fear would be left if the feeling neither of quickened heart-beats nor of shallow breathing, neither of trembling lips nor of weakened limbs, neither of goose-flesh nor of visceral stirrings, were present, it is quite impossible for me to think. Can one fancy the state of rage and picture no ebullition in the chest, no flushing of the face, no dilatation 274

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of the nostrils, no clenching of the teeth, no impulse to vigorous action, but in their stead limp muscles, calm breathing, and a placid face? The present writer, for one, certainly cannot. The rage is as completely evaporated as the sensation of its socalled manifestations, and the only thing that can possibly be supposed to take its place is some cold-blooded and dispassionate judicial sentence, confined entirely to the intellectual realm, to the effect that a certain person or persons merit chastisement for their sins. In like manner of grief: what would it be without its tears, its sobs, its suffocation of the heart, its pang in the breast-bone? A feelingless cognition that certain circumstances are deplorable, and nothing more. Every passion in turn tells the same story. A purely disembodied human emotion is a nonentity. I do not say that it is a contradiction in the nature of things, or that pure spirits are necessarily condemned to cold intellectual lives; but I say that for us, emotion dissociated from all bodily feeling is inconceivable. The more closely I scrutinize my states, the more persuaded I become that whatever moods, affections, and passions I have are in very truth constituted by, and made up of, those bodily changes which we ordinarily call their expression or consequence; and the more it seems to me that if I were to become corporeally anæsthetic, I should be excluded from the life of the affections, harsh and tender alike, and drag out an existence of merely cognitive or intellectual form. Such an existence, although it seems to have been the ideal of ancient sages, is too apathetic to be keenly sought after by those born after the revival of the worship of sensibility, a few generations ago. Let not this view be called materialistic. It is neither more nor less materialistic than any other view which says that our emotions are conditioned by nervous processes. No reader of this book is likely to rebel against such a saying so long as it is expressed in general terms; and if any one still finds materialism in the thesis now defended, that must be because of the special processes invoked. They are sensational processes, processes due to inward currents set up by physical happenings. Such processes have, it is true, always been regarded by the platonizers in psychology as having something peculiarly base about them. But our emotions must always be inwardly what they are, whatever be the physiological ground of their apparition. If they are deep, pure, worthy, spiritual facts on any conceivable theory of their physiological source, they remain no less deep, pure, spiritual, and worthy of regard on this present sensational theory. They carry their own inner measure of worth with them; and it is just as logical to use the present theory of the emotions for proving that sensational processes need not be vile and material, as to use their vileness and materiality as a proof that such a theory cannot be true. If such a theory is true, then each emotion is the resultant of a sum of elements, and each element is caused by a physiological process of a sort already well known. The elements are all organic changes, and each of them is the reflex effect of the exciting object. Definite questions now immediately arise—questions very different from those which were the only possible ones without this view. Those were questions of classification: “Which are the proper genera of emotion, and which the species under each?” or of description: “By what expression is each emotion characterized?” The questions now are causal: “Just what changes 275

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does this object and what changes does that object excite?” and “How come they to excite these particular changes and not others?” We step from a superficial to a deep order of inquiry. Classification and description are the lowest stage of science. They sink into the background the moment questions of genesis are formulated, and remain important only so far as they facilitate our answering these. Now the moment the genesis of an emotion is accounted for, as the arousal by an object of a lot of reflex acts which are forthwith felt, we immediately see why there is no limit to the number of possible different emotions which may exist, and why the emotions of different individuals may vary indefinitely, both as to their constitution and as to objects which call them forth. For there is nothing sacramental or eternally fixed in reflex action. Any sort of reflex effect is possible, and reflexes actually vary indefinitely, as we know. “We have all seen men dumb, instead of talkative, with joy; we have seen fright drive the blood into the head of its victim, instead of making him pale; we have seen grief run restlessly about lamenting, instead of sitting bowed down and mute; etc., etc., and this naturally enough, for one and the same cause can work differently on different men’s blood-vessels (since these do not always react alike), whilst moreover the impulse on its way through the brain to the vaso-motor centre is differently influenced by different earlier impressions in the form of recollections or associations of ideas.”2 In short, any classification of the emotions is seen to be as true and as ‘natural’ as any other, if it only serves some purpose; and such a question as “What is the ‘real’ or ‘typical’ expression of anger, or fear?” is seen to have no objective meaning at all. Instead of it we now have the question as to how any given ‘expression’ of anger or fear may have come to exist; and that is a real question of physiological mechanics on the one hand, and of history on the other, which (like all real questions) is in essence answerable, although the answer may be hard to find. On a later page I shall mention the attempts to answer it which have been made. ... The best proof that the immediate cause of emotion is a physical effect on the nerves is furnished by those pathological cases in which the emotion is objectless. One of the chief merits, in fact, of the view which I propose seems to be that we can so easily formulate by its means pathological cases and normal cases under a common scheme. In every asylum we find examples of absolutely unmotived fear, anger, melancholy, or conceit; and others of an equally unmotived apathy which persists in spite of the best of outward reasons why it should give way. In the former cases we must suppose the nervous machinery to be so ‘labile’ in some one emotional direction that almost every stimulus (however inappropriate) causes it to upset in that way, and to engender the particular complex of feelings of which the psychic body of the emotion consists. Thus, to take one special instance, if 276

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inability to draw deep breath, fluttering of the heart, and that peculiar epigastric change felt as ‘precordial anxiety,’ with an irresistible tendency to take a somewhat crouching attitude and to sit still, and with perhaps other visceral processes not now known, all spontaneously occur together in a certain person; his feeling of their combination is the emotion of dread, and he is the victim of what is known as morbid fear. A friend who has had occasional attacks of this most distressing of all maladies tells me that in his case the whole drama seems to centre about the region of the heart and respiratory apparatus, that his main effort during the attacks is to get control of his inspirations and to slow his heart, and that the moment he attains to breathing deeply and to holding himself erect, the dread, ipso facto, seems to depart.3 The emotion here is nothing but the feeling of a bodily state, and it has a purely bodily cause. “All physicians who have been much engaged in general practice have seen cases of dyspepsia in which constant low spirits and occasional attacks of terror rendered the patient’s condition pitiable in the extreme. I have observed these cases often, and have watched them closely, and I have never seen greater suffering of any kind than I have witnessed during these attacks. . . . Thus, a man is suffering from what we call nervous dyspepsia. Some day, we will suppose in the middle of the afternoon, without any warning or visible cause, one of these attacks of terror comes on. The first thing the man feels is great but vague discomfort. Then he notices that his heart is beating much too violently. At the same time shocks or flashes as of electrical discharges, so violent as to be almost painful, pass one after another through his body and limbs. Then in a few minutes he falls into a condition of the most intense fear. He is not afraid of anything; he is simply afraid. His mind is perfectly clear. He looks for a cause of his wretched condition, but sees none. Presently his terror is such that he trembles violently and utters low moans; his body is damp with perspiration; his mouth is perfectly dry; and at this stage there are no tears in his eyes, though his suffering is intense. When the climax of the attack is reached and passed, there is a copious flow of tears, or else a mental condition in which the person weeps upon the least provocation. At this stage a large quantity of pale urine is passed. Then the heart’s action becomes again normal, and the attack passes off.”4 Again: “There are outbreaks of rage so groundless and unbridled that all must admit them to be expressions of disease. For the medical layman hardly anything can be more instructive than the observation of such a pathological attack of rage, especially when it presents itself pure and unmixed with other psychical disturbances. This happens in that rather rare disease named transitory mania. The patient predisposed to this—otherwise an entirely reasonable person—will be attacked suddenly without the slightest outward provocation, and thrown (to use the words of the latest writer on the subject, O. Schwartzer, Die transitorische Tobsucht, Wien, 1880), 277

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‘into a paroxysm of the wildest rage, with a fearful and blindly furious impulse to do violence and destroy.’ He flies at those about him; strikes, kicks, and throttles whomever he can catch; dashes every object about which he can lay his hands on; breaks and crushes what is near him; tears his clothes; shouts, howls, and roars, with eyes that flash and roll, and shows meanwhile all those symptoms of vaso-motor congestion which we have learned to know as the concomitants of anger. His face is red, swollen, his cheeks hot, his eyes protuberant and their whites bloodshot, the heart beats violently, the pulse marks 100–120 strokes a minutes. The arteries of the neck are full and pulsating, the veins are swollen, the saliva flows. The fit lasts only a few hours, and ends suddenly with a sleep of from 8 to 12 hours, on waking from which the patient has entirely forgotten what has happened.”5 In these (outwardly) causeless emotional conditions the particular paths which are explosive are discharged by any and every incoming sensation. Just as, when we are seasick, every smell, every taste, every sound, every sight, every movement, every sensible experience whatever, augments our nausea, so the morbid terror or anger is increased by each and every sensation which stirs up the nervecentres. Absolute quiet is the only treatment for the time. It seems impossible not to admit that in all this the bodily condition takes the lead, and that the mental emotion follows. The intellect may, in fact, be so little affected as to play the cold-blooded spectator all the while, and note the absence of a real object for the emotion.6

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6

Carl Lange (1834–1900). Lange, [Ueber Gemüthsbewegungen, uebersetzt von H. Kurella (Leipzig, 1887)], p. 75. A long note about morbid fear is excluded here for length reasons. R.M. Bucke: Man’s Moral Nature (N.Y., 1879), p. 97. Lange, Op Cit, p. 61. A long note is excluded here on grief.

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39 H E L EN BRADF ORD THOM PSON WO OLLEY (1874–19 4 7 ) , THE ME NTAL TRAIT S OF S EX; AN E X P E RIMENTAL INVE S TI GATI ON O F THE NORMAL MIN D I N M EN AND WOMEN (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1903), pp. 148–157, 165–168

Helen Bradford Thompson Woolley was an American psychologist, with a particular interest in sex differences in psychological experience and in the psychology of children and child development. She received her PhD from the University of Chicago, but following her husband’s career, she spent much of her career in schools and children’s welfare before becoming Director of the Institute for Child Welfare Research at Teachers College, Columbia University. As the excerpt from her book on the Mental Traits of Sex suggests, her scholarship was influenced by the increasing quantitative empiricism with the psychological sciences, which now collected data on a large-scale for general analysis (rather than relying on more qualitative case studies of the unwell or anthropological observations of groups and individuals). Woolley’s book received some criticism on publication as it was argued that the women in her study – all university students, like the men – would likely be more intelligent than average (unlike the men where college attendance was more typical across intelligence levels). From the perspective of the history of emotions, it is notable that emotions in her study were used as evidences of general personality and behaviour, rather than pathologies or instinctive responses to events, and as such spoke to character and identity. … 4. Questions on the individual aspects of personality.—The questions on the individual aspects of personality were as follows: 1. Do you consider yourself very emotional? 2. Is your instinct to express emotions or to repress and hide them? 279

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3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

What sort of physical expression do violent emotions have? Are you very introspective? Do you do much day-dreaming? Do you ever have illusions, hallucinations, or presentiments? Are you of the impulsive or of the reflective type in action? Do you always give reasons to yourself for your judgments and decisions at the time when you make them, or are they frequently intuitive? Are you very active physically? Are you mechanical? i.e., do you enjoy working with your hands? Have you executive ability? i.e., do you enjoy managing and taking responsibility, and do you succeed when you do? Have you a contented disposition, on the whole? Are you inclined to brood and worry over things which go wrong? Is your impulse to blame yourself if possible, or others if possible, or fate, when things go wrong? Are you very conscientious? Do ethical or aesthetic or religious ideas play the largest part in controlling your acts?

The answers to these questions, with the exception of question 3, are summarized in Table 39.1. The only difference in emotional nature indicated by the answers to the first two questions is a somewhat greater tendency on the part of the women to repress emotions, while the men reported themselves more disposed to express their emotions. In answer to the third question both the men and the women reported trembling as the commonest physical effect of emotion and a tendency to weep as the next commonest. The next in order were rigidity of the muscles and aimless movements in the case of the men, and faintness and weakening in the case of the women. The women mentioned on an average more physical effects of emotion than the men. Whether this fact is due to greater accuracy and completeness on the part of the women, or to a more complicated response to emotion on their part, it is difficult to judge. The result of the plethysmographic test (see above, sec. A) which showed the bodily response of the men to the stimuli used more marked and immediate than that of the women, would point to the former hypothesis. In the only case in which the subjects were questioned as to the physical effects of a particular emotion (viz., the case of question 18, on embarrassment, in sec. 5) more effects per individual were reported by the men. The tendency to introspection (questions 4 and 5) was reported the same for both sexes, except for a slightly greater tendency toward day-dreaming in the case of the women. The question on illusions, hallucinations, and presentiments elicited the fact that presentiments were more frequent among the women, while illusions and hallucinations were more frequent among the men. It is interesting to notice in this connection that all subjects who reported either illusions or hallucinations reported presentiments also. The answers regarding impulsiveness (questions 7 and 8) are grouped almost identically for the two sexes. What little 280

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Table 39.1 Answers to questions on individual aspects of personality

1. Emotionality: Great Medium None 2. Expression or repression of emotion: Expression predominant Repression predominant Neither predominant 4. Introspectiveness: Great Medium None 5. Disposition to day-dreaming: Great at present Great formerly Some None 6. Illusions, hallucinations, and presentiments: Illusions Hallucinations Presentiments None of the three 7. Impulsiveness or reflectiveness in action: Impulsive Reflective Neither, primarily 8. Character of judgments and decisions: Reasoned Intuitive Neither, primarily 9. Physical activity Great Small 10. Taste for mechanics: Great Some None 11. Executive ability: Marked Slight None 12. Habitual contentment: Marked Slight None 13. Disposition to brood and worry: Marked

Women

Men

10 5 10

10 5 10

8 18 1

10 15 —

13 6 6

13 6 6

10 5 7 3

8 5 10 4

1 — 13 12

2 2 8 17

7 16 2

9 15 1

17 7 1

16 8 1

13 12

16 9

10 2 13

6 3 16

13 4 8

11 10 4

13 3 9

18 2 5

9

10 (Continued)

281

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Table 39.1 (Continued) Women Some Very little 14. Habit as to placing blame for mishaps:1 Disposed to blame self Disposed to blame others Disposed to blame fate Disposed to place blame where it belongs 15. Conscientiousness:2 Marked Some None 16. Standards of conduct: Religious Ethical Aesthetic Religious and ethical equally Ethical and aesthetic equally

Men

4 12

6 9

10 6 2 6

10 6 1 6

14 6 5

14 7 3

3 12 5 4 1

3 11 6 2 3

difference there is shows less impulsiveness and more tendency to control by reason on the part of the women—a result which is in agreement with their greater tendency to repress and control emotion. The men reported a more marked tendency to physical activity (question 9) than the women, but the women reported a greater taste for working with the hands (question 10). The former report accords with the popular opinion, but the latter is unexpected. In executive ability (question 11) little, if any, difference between the sexes appears. There are more women at both extremes and more men in the middle range. There were more men than women who were habitually contented (question 12), but the tendency to worry (question 13) was somewhat greater among the men—a result which seems a little contradictory. The tendency to locate blame for unfortunate events (question 14) is distributed among the various categories in the same proportion for both sexes. The answers to the question on conscientiousness (question 15) coincide almost exactly for the two sexes. When the last question, as to the nature of the standards of conduct, was asked, it was carefully explained to the subject that the inquiry was whether his decisions about acts were controlled by considering whether or not the act in question was pleasing to God, or by considering whether the act was right or wrong, or by considering whether it was pleasing and proper and fit under the circumstances. Many subjects answered that more than one of these standards governed their decisions. In such cases, if one of the standards was reported predominant, the subject was classified under that standard alone; but if two were reported equally important, the subject was classified as governed by a combined standard. The men and the 282

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Table 39.2 Number of times the three standards of conduct were mentioned by the subjects.

Religious Ethical Aesthetic

Women

Men

11 20 7

8 17 15

women are classified under each standard in about the same proportion, though the aesthetic factor appears more frequently in the men’s standards and the religious in the women’s. The ethical factor seems equally important to both sexes. The total number of times each of the three standards was mentioned, as either primary or secondary, by the men and the women appears in Table 39.2. Here the greater prevalence of aesthetic judgments among the men and of religious judgments among the women is more marked, while ethical judgments seem to be slightly more prevalent among the women. 5. Questions on social aspects of personality.—The questions on the social aspects of personality were as follows: 1. Are your interests in life centered more largely in your relations with people, or in your intellectual and practical pursuits? 2. Are you sensitive about other people’s opinion of you? 3. Do you consider yourself independent in making decisions or are you influenced by the view of others? 4. Do you like to be much alone, or do you desire companionship most of the time? 5. Do you enjoy conversation particularly? 6. Do you enjoy the society of men or of women better? 7. Have you many friends? 8. Have you many intimate friends? 9. Are the majority of your friends men or women? 10. Are you affectionate? 11. Are you sympathetic? 12. Are you demonstrative in affection? 13. Do you attach much importance to relationships, i.e., do you feel under obligation to like a person or to do him favors merely because he is related to you? 14. Are you socially timid? 15. Are you physically timid? 16. Are you frank? 17. Are you easily embarrassed?   18. How does embarrassment show itself? 19. Are you curious about affairs that are not of immediate interest to you? 283

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The summary of the answers to these questions (except the answer to question 18) is given in Table 39.3. The general tenor of the answers is to show that social relationships are more important to the men than to the women. A greater number of the men than of the women reported that they were more keenly interested in their relations with people than in their own pursuits; that they were extremely sensitive about other people’s opinion of them; that they desired companionship most of the time; and that they had a large circle of friends. Fewer of the men than of the women, however, reported a great number of intimate friends. More of the men than of the women considered themselves affectionate, sympathetic, and demonstrative in affection. Their curiosity appears slightly greater than that of the women. The interest in the other sex also appears greater among the men than among the women. A considerably greater number of the men than of the women said they enjoyed the society of the other sex better than that of their own, and there were more men than women with an equal or greater number of friends of the opposite sex. As to independence in judgment and action the two records are practically alike. More of the women than of the men laid stress on relationship, a fact which Table 39.3 Answers to questions on social aspects of personality.

1. Center of interest: Other people Own pursuits Both equally 2. Sensitiveness to others’ opinions Great Some Slight 3. Independence in decision: Great Some None 4. Taste for solitude: Great Some None 5. Taste for conversation:3 Great Small 6. Preference for society of own or other sex: Own Other No preference 7. Number of friends:4 Many Few

284

Women

Men

14 6 5

17 6 2

10 11 4

13 8 4

11 7 7

12 7 6

9 10 6

5 6 14

18 7

16 8

10 4 11

8 10 7

15 8

20 5

T H E M E N TA L T R A I T S O F S E X

8. Number of intimate friends: Many Few 9. Sex of majority of friends: Own Other No preponderance 10. Affectionateness: Marked Medium None 11. Sympathy: Marked Medium None 12. Demonstrativeness in affection: Marked Medium None 13. Consideration for relatives as such: Great Small None 14. Social timidity: Marked None 15. Physical timidity: Marked None 16. Frankness:5 Marked Medium None 17. Liability to embarrassment: Marked Medium None 18. Curiosity: Great Small None

Women

Men

12 13

10 15

18 2 5

13 4 8

16 4 5

18 5 2

18 4 3

21 2 2

6 3 16

9 6 10

9 11 5

6 10 9

13 12

12 13

9 16

9 16

11 3 10

16 6 3

15 1 9

8 9 8

8 4 13

10 3 12

is in accord with the greater prominence of religious and ethical standards among the women. No difference in timidity, either social or physical, was reported. The number of men reporting frankness considerably exceeds the number of women. More women than men reported themselves easily embarrassed, but the men as a whole reported a greater number of physical effects of embarrassment than the women. For both sexes the commonest effect was blushing and the next some 285

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departure from the usual habit of speech. Of these modifications of speech unusual reticence was most frequent in both sexes; getting the tongue twisted or hesitating came next, and unusual talkativeness next Forgetting words and making aimless movements were reported an equal number of times by both sexes. Feeling hot and perspiring were reported frequently by men, but not by women. ...

General summary of experiments on affective processes The physiological expression of affective processes, as shown in the experiments on circulation and respiration, is more intense in men than in women. As to the character of the affective processes themselves, the most striking thing revealed by the above questions on personality is their close coincidence in both sexes. The realm of feeling is one of those upon which chief stress is laid by those who believe that there are important psychological differences of sex, and yet we find a series of men and a series of women reacting toward questions about the life of feeling in wonderfully similar ways. Nevertheless, a few differences are revealed, some of which confirm certain conclusions suggested by previous experiments of the present series. Sensory experience in general seems to be somewhat more prominent in the consciousness of women than in that of men. Other investigators agree that synaesthesias occur more frequently in women than in men, and in the present investigation they were found (grouping all forms together) in fifteen women and eight men. This fuller sensory experience of women may be correlated with the fact that their senses as a whole are more highly developed. The greater prominence of visual consciousness among women is especially marked. That women’s visual consciousness held this relative position was suggested by their better-developed sense of color, their more frequent use of visual images in memorizing, and their greater readiness in solving a problem depending on quickness of visual perception. This suggestion receives further confirmation from the fact that a greater number of women than of men report vision as the sensory field which attracts attention most readily, and as the one from which most pleasure and pain are derived. Pseudo-chromaesthesias, number-forms and diagrams for the days of the week and months of the year are also more numerous among women than among men. The pseudo-chromaesthesias may be correlated with the more highly developed color sense of women. The greater motor ability of men, which was shown by the experiments recorded in chap. ii, may be correlated with the answers to the questions on methods of rest and recreation and the question as to physical activity. More men than women prefer outdoor exercise as a method of resting after mental work. Men class outdoor sports much higher than do women as a form of amusement. Physical activity is greater among men than among women. Social consciousness seems to be more prominent in men than in women. Social gatherings are ranked higher, as a form of amusement, by men, and their 286

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immediate relations to their fellows seem to be of greater importance to men than to women. The religious consciousness is more prominent among women than among men. More women than men have strong religious beliefs and regulate their actions by religious standards. Belief in omens, presentiments, and superstitions is also somewhat more prominent among women. As far as the strength of the emotional nature, the form of its expression, and the degree of impulsiveness in action are concerned, the answers coincide very, closely for the sexes. The only difference is that women seem to have a greater tendency to inhibit the expression of emotion and to act from reason rather than from impulse. The tendency to introspection is the same for both sexes. It is somewhat more apt to take the form of day-dreaming among women. The reports on conscientiousness are the same for both. Men are more frank than women, and women are more easily embarrassed than men. In intellectual interests, easiest and hardest branches of study, and methods of work, there are only trifling divergences. Women derive more pleasure from study than men, while men devote somewhat more time to it than women.

Notes 1 One man and one woman were unable to answer this question. One man thought himself equally likely to blame himself and others. 2 In the case of one man this question was omitted. 3 In the case of one man this question was omitted. 4 One woman was unable to answer this question and one reported the number of her friends as medium. 5 One woman was unable to answer question 16.

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40 HAVELOCK ELLIS ( 1 8 5 9 – 1 9 3 9 ) , STUDIES IN THE PS YCHOLOGY OF SEX 6 vols (1897–1928), vol. 3, pp. 66–74, 82–84

Havelock Ellis was a sexologist, eugenicist and researcher, who wrote some of the earliest systematic studies of sexuality. Heavily influenced by evolutionary theory and psychology, Ellis sought to explore a broad array of sexual behaviour and associated identities from an amoral perspective. For Ellis, much human sexual and gendered behaviour was outside of the control of the individual, either inherited genetically or formed as part of psychological structures during childhood, and therefore should be provided space for within society. As a eugenicist, he argued that undesirable traits, like homosexuality, would be reduced by natural limitations on procreation. The excerpt below from his encyclopaedic Studies in the Psychology of Sex explores the close association between love and pain, a theme that had a longer history in art, culture and philosophy. Here he explains such emotional pairings, as well as what he considers as normal heteronormative desires in men and women, in terms of a longer evolutionary history of human behaviour, where conflict between the sexes helped to maintain the fitness of the species. Like other scholars of his era, Ellis evidences his claims on anthropological observations, psychological studies of individuals, and the art and literature of other eras. … The relation of love to pain is one of the most difficult problems, and yet one of the most fundamental, in the whole range of sexual psychology. Why is it that love inflicts, and even seeks to inflict, pain? Why is it that love suffers pain, and even seeks to suffer it? In answering that question, it seems to me, we have to take an apparently circuitous route, sometimes going beyond the ostensible limits of sex altogether; but if we can succeed in answering it we shall have come very near one of the great mysteries of love. At the same time we shall have made clear the normal basis on which rest the extreme aberrations of love. The chief key to the relationship of love to pain is to be found by returning to the consideration of the essential phenomena of courtship in the animal world generally. Courtship is a 288

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play, a game; even its combats are often, to a large extent, mock-combats; but the process behind it is one of terrible earnestness, and the play may at any moment become deadly. Courtship tends to involve a mock-combat between males for the possession of the female which may at any time become a real combat; it is a pursuit of the female by the male which may at any time become a kind of persecution; so that, as Colin Scott remarks, “Courting may be looked upon as a refined and delicate form of combat.” The note of courtship, more especially among mammals, is very easily forced, and as soon as we force it we reach pain.1 The intimate and inevitable association in the animal world of combat—of the fighting and hunting impulses—with the process of courtship alone suffices to bring love into close connection with pain. Among mammals the male wins the female very largely by the display of force. The infliction of pain must inevitably be a frequent indirect result of the exertion of power. It is even more than this; the infliction of pain by the male on the female may itself be a gratification of the impulse to exert force. This tendency has always to be held in check, for it is of the essence of courtship that the male should win the female, and she can only be won by the promise of pleasure. The tendency of the male to inflict pain must be restrained, so far as the female is concerned, by the consideration of what is pleasing to her. Yet, the more carefully we study the essential elements of courtship, the clearer it becomes that, playful as these manifestations may seem on the surface, in every direction they are verging on pain. It is so among animals generally; it is so in man among savages. “It is precisely the alliance of pleasure and pain,” wrote the physiologist Burdach, “which constitutes the voluptuous emotion.”2 Nor is this emotional attitude entirely confined to the male. The female also in courtship delights to arouse to the highest degree in the male the desire for her favors and to withhold those favors from him, thus finding on her part also the enjoyment of power in cruelty. “One’s cruelty is one’s power,” Millament says in Congreve’s Way of the World, “and when one parts with one’s cruelty one parts with one’s power.”3 At the outset, then, the impulse to inflict pain is brought into courtship, and at the same time rendered a pleasurable idea to the female, because with primitive man, as well as among his immediate ancestors, the victor in love has been the bravest and strongest rather than the most beautiful or the most skilful. Until he can fight he is not reckoned a man and he cannot hope to win a woman. Among the African Masai a man is not supposed to marry until he has blooded his spear, and in a very different part of the world, among the Dyaks of Borneo, there can be little doubt that the chief incentive to head-hunting is the desire to please the women, the possession of a head decapitated by himself being an excellent way of winning a maiden’s favor. Such instances are too well known to need multiplication here, and they survive in civilization, for, even among ourselves, although courtship is now chiefly ruled by quite other considerations, most women are in some degree emotionally affected by strength and courage. But the direct result of this is that a group of phenomena with which cruelty and the infliction of pain 289

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must inevitably be more or less allied is brought within the sphere of courtship and rendered agreeable to women. Here, indeed, we have the source of that love of cruelty which some have found so marked in women. This is a phase of courtship which helps us to understand how it is that, as we shall see, the idea of pain, having become associated with sexual emotion, may be pleasurable to women. Thus, in order to understand the connection between love and pain, we have once more to return to the consideration, under a somewhat new aspect, of the fundamental elements in the sexual impulse. In discussing the “Evolution of Modesty” we found that the primary part of the female in courtship is the playful, yet serious, assumption of the rôle of a hunted animal who lures on the pursuer, not with the object of escaping, but with the object of being finally caught. In considering the “Analysis of the Sexual Impulse” we found that the primary part of the male in courtship is by the display of his energy and skill to capture the female or to arouse in her an emotional condition which leads her to surrender herself to him, this process itself at the same time heightening his own excitement. In the playing of these two different parts is attained in both male and female that charging of nervous energy, that degree of vascular tumescence, necessary for adequate discharge and detumescence in an explosion by which sperm-cells and germ-cells are brought together for the propagation of the race. We are now concerned with the necessary interplay of the differing male and female rôles in courtship, and with their accidental emotional by-products. Both male and female are instinctively seeking the same end of sexual union at the moment of highest excitement. There cannot, therefore, be real conflict. But there is the semblance of a conflict, an apparent clash of aim, an appearance of cruelty. Moreover,—and this is a significant moment in the process from our present point of view,—when there are rivals for the possession of one female there is always a possibility of actual combat, so tending to introduce an element of real violence, of undisguised cruelty, which the male inflicts on his rival and which the female views with satisfaction and delight in the prowess of the successful claimant. Here we are brought close to the zoölogical root of the connection between love and pain. In his admirable work on play in man Groos4 has fully discussed the plays of combat (Kampfspiele), which begin to develop even in childhood and assume full activity during adolescence; and he points out that, while the impulse to such play certainly has a wider biological significance, it still possesses a relationship to the sexual life and to the rivalries of animals in courtship which must not be forgotten. Nor is it only in play that the connection between love and combativity may still be traced. With the epoch of the first sexual relationship, Marro5 points out, awakes the instinct of cruelty, which prompts the youth to acts which are sometimes in absolute contrast to his previous conduct, and leads him to be careless of the lives of others as well as of his own life. Marro presents a diagram showing how crimes against the person in Italy rise rapidly from the age of 16 to 20 and reach a climax between 21 and 25. In Paris, Garnier6 states, crimes of blood are six times more frequent in adolescents (aged 16 to 20) than in adults. It is the same 290

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elsewhere. This tendency to criminal violence during the age-period of courtship is a by-product of the sexual impulse, a kind of tertiary sexual character. In the process of what is commonly termed “marriage by capture” we have a method of courtship which closely resembles the most typical form of animal courtship, and is yet found in all but the highest and most artificial stages of human society. It may not be true that, as MacLennan7 and others have argued, almost every race of man has passed through an actual stage of marriage by capture, but the phenomena in question have certainly been extremely widespread and exist in popular custom even among the highest races today. George Sand has presented a charming picture of such a custom, existing in France, in her Mare au Diable. Farther away, among the Kirghiz, the young woman is pursued by all her lovers, but she is armed with a formidable whip, which she does not hesitate to use if overtaken by a lover to whom she is not favorable. Among the Malays, according to early travelers, courtship is carried on in the water in canoes with double-bladed paddles; or, if no water is near, the damsel, stripped naked of all but a waistband, is given a certain start and runs off on foot followed by her lover. Vaughan Stevens in 1896 reported that this performance is merely a sport; but Skeat and Blagden, in their more recent and very elaborate investigations in the Malay States, find that it is a rite. Even if we regard “marriage by capture” as simply a primitive human institution stimulated by tribal exigencies and early social conditions, yet, when we recall its widespread and persistent character, its close resemblance to the most general method of courtship among animals, and the emotional tendencies which still persist even in the most civilized men and women, we have to recognize that we are in presence of a real psychological impulse which cannot fail in its exercise to introduce some element of pain into love. There are, however, two fundamentally different theories concerning “marriage by capture.” According to the first, that of MacLennan, which, until recently, has been very widely accepted, and to which Professor Tylor8 has given the weight of his authority, there has really been in primitive society a recognized stage in which marriages were effected by the capture of the wife. Such a state of things MacLennan regarded as once world-wide. There can be no doubt that women very frequently have been captured in this way among primitive peoples. Nor, indeed, has the custom been confined to savages. In Europe we find that even up to comparatively recent times the abduction of women was not only very common, but was often more or less recognized. In England it was not until Henry VII’s time that the violent seizure of a woman was made a criminal offense, and even then the statute was limited to women possessed of lands and goods. A man might still carry off a girl provided she was not an heiress; but even the abduction of heiresses continued to be common, and in Ireland remained so until the end of the eighteenth century. But it is not so clear that such raids and abductions, even when not of a genuinely hostile character, have ever been a recognized and constant method of marriage. According to the second set of theories, the capture is not real, but simulated, and may be accounted for by psychological reasons. Fustel de Coulanges, in La Cité 291

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Antique, discussing simulated marriage by capture among the Romans, mentioned the view that it was “a symbol of the young girl’s modesty,” but himself regarded it as an act of force to symbolize the husband’s power. He was possibly alluding to Herbert Spencer, who suggested a psychological explanation of the apparent prevalence of marriage by capture based on the supposition that, capturing a wife being a proof of bravery, such a method of obtaining a wife would be practised by the strongest men and be admired, while, on the other hand, he considered that “female coyness” was “an important factor” in constituting the more formal kinds of marriage by capture ceremonial. Westermarck,9 while accepting true marriage by capture, considers that Spencer’s statement “can scarcely be disproved.” In his valuable study of certain aspects of primitive marriage Crawley,10 developing the explanation rejected by Fustel de Coulanges, regards the fundamental fact to be the modesty of women, which has to be neutralized, and this is done by “a ceremonial use of force, which is half real and half make-believe.” Thus the manifestations are not survivals, but “arising in a natural way from normal human feelings. It is not the tribe from which the bride is abducted, nor, primarily, her family and kindred, but her sex”; and her “sexual characters of timidity, bashfulness, and passivity are sympathetically overcome by make-believe representations of male characteristic actions.” It is not necessary for the present purpose that either of these two opposing theories concerning the origin of the customs and feelings we are here concerned with should be definitely rejected. Whichever theory is adopted, the fundamental psychic element which here alone concerns us still exists intact. It may be pointed out, however, that we probably have to accept two groups of such phenomena: one, seldom or never existing as the sole form of marriage, in which the capture is real; and another in which the “capture” is more or less ceremonial or playful. The two groups coexist among the Turcomans, as described by Vambery, who are constantly capturing and enslaving the Persians of both sexes, and, side by side with this, have a marriage ceremonial of mock-capture of entirely playful character. At the same time the two groups sometimes overlap, as is indicated by cases in which, while the “capture” appears to be ceremonial, the girl is still allowed to escape altogether if she wishes. The difficulty of disentangling the two groups is shown by the fact that so careful an investigator as Westermarck cites cases of real capture and mockcapture together without attempting to distinguish between them. From our present point of view it is quite unnecessary to attempt such a distinction. Whether the capture is simulated or real, the man is still playing the masculine and aggressive part proper to the male; the woman is still playing the feminine and defensive part proper to the female. The universal prevalence of these phenomena is due to the fact that manifestations of this kind, real or pretended, afford each sex the very best opportunity for playing its proper part in courtship, and so, even when the force is real, must always gratify a profound instinct. ... This association between love and pain still persists even among the most normal civilized men and women possessing well-developed sexual impulses. The 292

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masculine tendency to delight in domination, the feminine tendency to delight in submission, still maintain the ancient traditions when the male animal pursued the female. The phenomena of “marriage by capture,” in its real and its simulated forms, have been traced to various causes. But it has to be remembered that these causes could only have been operative in the presence of a favorable emotional aptitude, constituted by the zoölogical history of our race and still traceable even today. To exert power, as psychologists well recognize, is one of our most primary impulses, and it always tends to be manifested in the attitude of a man toward the woman he loves. It might be possible to maintain that the primitive element of more or less latent cruelty in courtship tends to be more rather than less marked in civilized man. In civilization the opportunity of dissipating the surplus energy of the courtship process by inflicting pain on rivals usually has to be inhibited; thus the woman to be wooed tends to become the recipient of the whole of this energy, both in its pleasure-giving and its pain-giving aspects. Moreover, the natural process of courtship, as it exists among animals and usually among the lower human races, tends to become disguised and distorted in civilization, as well by economic conditions as by conventional social conditions and even ethical prescription. It becomes forgotten that the woman’s pleasure is an essential element in the process of courtship. A woman is often reduced to seek a man for the sake of maintenance; she is taught that pleasure is sinful or shameful, that sex-matters are disgusting, and that it is a woman’s duty, and also her best policy, to be in subjection to her husband. Thus, various external checks which normally inhibit any passing over of masculine sexual energy into cruelty are liable to be removed. We have to admit that a certain pleasure in manifesting his power over a woman by inflicting pain upon her is an outcome and survival of the primitive process of courtship, and an almost or quite normal constituent of the sexual impulse in man. But it must be at once added that in the normal well-balanced and wellconditioned man this constituent of the sexual impulse, when present, is always held in check. When the normal man inflicts, or feels the impulse to inflict, some degree of physical pain on the woman he loves he can scarcely be said to be moved by cruelty. He feels, more or less obscurely, that the pain he inflicts, or desires to inflict, is really a part of his love, and that, moreover, it is not really resented by the woman on whom it is exercised. His feeling is by no means always according to knowledge, but it has to be taken into account as an essential part of his emotional state. The physical force, the teasing and bullying, which he may be moved to exert under the stress of sexual excitement, are, he usually more or less unconsciously persuades himself, not really unwelcome to the object of his love. Moreover, we have to bear in mind the fact—a very significant fact from more than one point of view—that the normal manifestations of a woman’s sexual pleasure are exceedingly like those of pain. “The outward expressions of pain,” as a lady very truly writes,— “tears, cries, etc.,—which are laid stress on to prove the cruelty of the person who inflicts it, are not so different from those of a woman in the ecstasy of passion, when she implores the man to desist, though that is really 293

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the last thing she desires.” If a man is convinced that he is causing real and unmitigated pain, he becomes repentant at once. If this is not the case he must either be regarded as a radically abnormal person or as carried away by passion to a point of temporary insanity.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

This text contains extensive notes to academic literature that have been removed here. Karl Burdach (1776–1847). Wlliam Congreve, The Way of the World (1700). Karl Groos (1861–1946). Antoine Marro (1840–?). Pierre Garnier (1819–1901). John Ferguson McLennan (1827–1881). Edward Tylor (1832–1917). Edvard Westermarck (1862–1939). Ernest Crawley (1867–1924).

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Part 6 ART AND CULTURE

Part 6 Art and culture

Art and culture remained a significant area where emotions were described, displayed on bodies, used to shape values and behaviours, and experienced, in the nineteenth century. A concern with the possibilities of art as a domain of emotion, rather than language and ideas, persisted and developed during this period, while some art forms – such as the melodrama – were hugely popular due to the scale of their emotional dramas. If folk tales and music were always important, the collection activities of nineteenth-century antiquarians left a rich resource for this period, opening up for historians the emotions and cultures of a much broader array of people across Europe. As in every century, art and culture could speak to the personal and familial, but it also informed the social and political. Art and culture became especially significant in the production of ideas about the nation and national identity, and emotions were critical to both defining the nation itself and to enabling patriotic feeling. If many forms of art and culture, including drama, paintings and music, had long cultural precedents, access to variety in art and culture expanded during this century with growing populations in urban locations, leading to an expansion in galleries, museums, theatres and music halls and a wider range of cheaply printed materials. New locations provided new contexts for emotion and emotional display, shaping how art and culture was experienced and interpreted.

41 A UGUSTUS VON KOTZEBUE (1761–1819), THE STRANGER: A DRAMA, IN FIV E ACTS Trans. Benjamin Thompson (London: Thomas Hailes Lacy, 1798/1846), pp. 31–37, 48–51

August von Kotzebue was German dramatist and writer, whose remarkably popular plays – translated into multiple languages and produced across Europe and the US – are often considered to be the first examples of melodrama, the sentimental style so popular on the nineteenth-century stage. Misanthropy and Repentance, translated into English as The Stranger, was one of his most popular and bestselling plays, especially in the Anglophone world. The story provides an account of the heroic recluse, ‘the stranger’, and Mrs Haller, his wife, who had separated after she eloped with another man. Quickly realising her mistake, Mrs Haller had went into service with the Countess Wintersen, over time becoming her confidant and friend. The key events of the play revolve around a visit from the Countess’s brother, Baron Steinfort, who falls in love with Mrs Haller, at the same time that his friend, ‘the stranger’ was staying nearby, along with his servant, Francis. The play explores themes that were central to nineteenth-century popular culture, including sexual infidelity and forgiveness, and sociability and masculinity (and can be compared with source 30). That its heightened emotional register was so popular, indeed fashionable, during the era is suggestive of the emotional culture of the time. … Enter BARON and COUNTESS, at Park Gate, c. from l.1 C OUNTES S . There is a strange face—the servant, probably. B ARON , (c.) Friend, can we speak to your master? FRAN . (r.) No. B ARON . Only for a few minutes. FRAN . He has locked himself in his room. C OUNTESS . (l. c.) Tell him a lady waits for him. FRAN . Then he’s sure not to come.

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A RT A N D C U LT U R E COUNTESS . Does he hate our sex? F RAN . He hates the whole human race, but woman particularly. COUNTES S . And why? F RAN . He may perhaps have been deceived. COUNTES S . This is not very courteous. F RAN . My master is not over courteous: but when he sees a chance

of saving a fellow creature’s life, he’ll attempt it at the peril of his own. BARON . You are right. Now hear the reason of our visit. The wife and brotherin-law of the man whose child your master has saved, wish to acknowledge their obligations to him. F RAN . That he dislikes. He only wishes to live unnoticed. COUNTES S . He appears to be unfortunate. F RAN . Appears! COUNTES S . An affair of honour, perhaps, or some unhappy attachment may have— F RAN . They may. COUNTES S . Be this as it may, I wish to know who he is. F RAN . So do I.   COUNTES S . What! don’t you know him yourself? F RAN . Oh! I know him well enough—I mean his real self—his heart—his soul— his worth—his honour! Perhaps you think one knows a man, when one is acquainted with his name and person? COUNTES S . ’Tis well said, friend; you please me much. And now I should like to know you. Who are you? F RAN . Your humble servant. (bows) Exit, r. Nay, now, this is affectation—a desire to appear singular! Every one wishes to make himself distinguished. One sails round the world; another creeps into a hovel. BARON . And the man apes his master! COUNTES S . Come, brother, let us seek the Count. He and Mrs. Haller turned into the lawn. BARON . Stay. First, a word or two, sister; I am in love. COUNTES S . For the hundredth time. BARON . For the first time in my life. COUNTES S . I wish you joy. BARON . Till now you have evaded my inquiries. Who is she? I beseech you, sister, be serious. There is a time for all things. COUNTES S . Bless us! Why, you look as if you were going to raise a spirit. Don’t fix your eyes so earnestly. Well, if I am to be serious, I obey. I do not know who Mrs. Haller is, as I have already told you; but what I do know of her shall not be concealed from you. It may now be three years ago, when one evening, about

COUNTES S .

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twilight, a lady was announced who wished to speak to me in private. Mrs. Haller appeared, with all that grace and modesty which have enchanted you. Her features at that moment bore keener marks of the sorrow and confusion which have since settled into gentle melancholy. She threw herself at my feet, and besought me to save a wretch who was on the brink of despair. She told me she had heard much of my benevolence, and offered herself as a servant to attend me. I endeavoured to dive into the cause of her sufferings, but in vain. She concealed her secret, yet opened to me more and more each day a heart, chosen by Virtue as her temple, and an understanding improved by the most refined attainments. She no longer remained my servant, but became my friend—and, by her own desire, has ever since resided here. (curtseying) Brother, I have done. B ARON . Too little to satisfy my curiosity; yet enough to make me realise my project. Sister, lend me your aid —I would marry her. C OUNTES S . You! B ARON . I. C OUNTES S . Baron Steinfort! B ARON . For shame! if I understand you. C OUNTES S . Not so harsh, and not so hasty! Those great sentiments of contempt of inequality in rank are very fine in a romance; but we happen not to be inhabitants of an ideal world. How could you introduce her to the circle we live in? You surely would not attempt to present her to— B ARON . Object as you will; my answer is—I love. Sister, you see a man before you who— C OUNTES S . Who wants a wife. B ARON . No; who has deliberately poised advantage against disadvantage— domestic ease and comfort against the false gaieties of fashion. I can withdraw into the country. I need no honours to make my tenants happy, and my heart will teach me to make their happiness my own. With such a wife as this, children who resemble her, and fortune enough to spread comfort around me, what would the soul of man have more? C OUNTES S . This is all vastly fine. I admire your plan; only you seem to have forgotten one trifling circumstance. B ARON . And that is? – C OUNTES S . Whether Mrs. Haller will have you or not. B ARON . There, sister, I just want your assistance. (seizing her hand) Good Henrietta! C OUNTES S . Well, here’s my hand: I’ll do all I can for you. St! We had near been overheard. They are coming,—be patient and obedient. Enter COUNT, and MRS. HALLER leaning on his arm, c. from l. Upon my word, Mrs. Haller, you are a nimble walker—I should be sorry to run a race with you. MRS. H. CUSTOM, my lord: you need only take the same walk every day for a month. C OUNT.

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A RT A N D C U LT U R E COUNT. Yes, if I wanted to resemble my greyhounds! But what said the Stranger? COUNTES S . He gave Charlotte a flat refusal; and you see his door, and even his

shutters, are closed against us. What an unaccountable being! But it won’t—I must show my gratitude one way or other. Steinfort, we will take the ladies home, and then you shall try once again to see him: you can talk to these oddities better than I can. BARON . If you wish it, with all my heart. COUNT. Thank you—thank you. Come, ladies—come, Mrs. Haller. COUNT.

Exeunt, c. and l. Scene II.—A close Walk in the Garden Enter COUNTESS and MRS. HALLER, r. COUNTES S . Well, Mrs. Haller, how do you like the man that just now left us? M RS . H. Who? COUNTES S . My brother. M RS . H. He deserves to be your brother. COUNTES S . (curtseying) Your most obedient! that, shall be written in my

pocket-book. M RS . H. Without flattery, then, madam, he appears to me most amiable. COUNTES S . Good! And a handsome man? M RS . H. (with indifference) Oh, yes! COUNTES S . “Oh, yes!” It sounded almost like “Oh, no!” But I must tell you, that

he looks upon you to be a handsome woman. (MRS. HALLER smiles) You make no reply to this? M RS . H. What shall I reply? Derision never fell from your lips; and I am little calculated to support it. COUNTES S . As little as you are calculated to be the cause it. No, I was in earnest. Now? M RS . H. You confuse me! But why should I play the prude? I will own there was a time when I thought myself handsome,—’tis past. Alas! the enchanting beauties of a female countenance arise from peace of mind—the look which captivates an honourable man must be reflected from a noble soul. COUNTES S . Then heaven grant my bosom may ever hold as pure a heart, as now those eyes bear witness, lives in yours! M RS . H. (with sudden wildness) Oh! heaven forbid! COUNTES S . (astonished) How? M RS . H. (checking her tears) Spare me! I am a wretch! The sufferings of three years can give me no claim to your friendship:—no, not even to your compassion. Oh! spare me! (going) COUNTES S . Stay, Mrs. Haller. For the first time, I beg your confidence:—my brother loves you. 302

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(starting and gazing full in the face of the COUNTESS) For mirth, too much—for earnest, too mournful! C OUNTES S . I revere that modest blush. Discover to me who you are. You risk nothing. Pour all your griefs into a sister’s bosom. Am I not kind? and can I not be silent? MRS. H. Alas! but a frank reliance upon a generous mind is the greatest sacrifice to be offered by true repentance. This sacrifice I will offer. (hesitating) Did you never hear—pardon me, did you never hear—Oh! how shocking is it to unmask a deception, which alone has recommended me to your regard! But it must be so. Madam!—fie, Adelaide! does pride become you? Did you never hear of the Countess Waldbourg? C OUNTES S . I think I did hear, at the neighbouring court, of such a creature. She plunged an honourable husband into misery. She ran away with a villain. MRS. H. She did indeed. (falls at the feet of the COUNTESS) Do not cast me away from you. C OUNTES S . For heaven’s sake! you are— MRS. H. I am that wretch! C OUNTES S . (turning from her with horror) Ha!—be gone! (going, her heart draws her back) Yet, she is unfortunate; she is unfriended! Her image is repentance— her life the proof:—she has wept her fault in three years’ agony. Be still awhile, remorseless prejudice, and let the genuine feelings of my soul avow: they do not truly honour Virtue, who can insult the erring heart that would return to her sanctuary. (looking with sorrow on her) Rise, I beseech you rise! My husband and my brother may surprise us. I promise to be silent. (raising her) MRS. H. Yes, you will be silent—but, oh, conscience! conscience! thou never wilt be silent, (clasping her hand) Do not cast me from you. C OUNTES S . Never! Your lonely life, your silent anguish, and contrition, may at length atone your crime; and never shall you want an asylum, where your penitence may lament your loss. MRS. H. Yes, I have lost him! But—I had children, too. C OUNTES S . Enough, enough! MRS. H. Oh, madam! I would only know whether they are alive or dead! That, for a mother, is not much. C OUNTES S . Compose yourself. MRS. H. Oh! had you known my husband when I first beheld him! I was then scarcely sixteen years of age. C OUNTES S . And your marriage? MRS. H. A few months after. C OUNTES S . And your flight? MRS. H. I lived three years with him. C OUNTES S . Oh, my friend! your crime was youth and inexperience: your heart never was, never could be concerned in it. MRS. H. Oh! spare me! My conscience never martyrs me so horribly, as when I catch my base thoughts in search of an excuse. No, nothing can palliate my

MRS . H.

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guilt; and the only just consolation left me, is to acquit the man I wronged, and own I erred without a cause of fair complaint. COUNTES S . And this is the mark of true repentance. Alas! my friend, when superior sense, recommended too by superior charms of person, assails a young, though wedded— M RS . H. Ah! not even that mean excuse is left me. In all that merits admiration, respect, and love, he was far, far beneath my husband. But to attempt to account for my infatuation—I cannot bear it! ’Tis true, I thought my husband’s manner grew colder to me; I knew that his expenses, and his confidence in deceitful friends, had embarrassed his means, and clouded his spirits; yet, I thought he denied me pleasures and amusements, still within our reach. My vanity was mortified—my confidence not courted! The serpent tongue of my seducer promised everything! But never could such arguments avail, till assisted by forged letters, and the treachery of a servant whom I most confided in; he fixed my belief that my lord was false, and that all the coldness I complained of, was disgust to me, and love for another; all his home retrenchments, but the means of satisfying a rival’s luxury. Maddened with this conviction, (conviction it was, for artifice was most ingenious in its proof) I left my children— father—husband—to follow—a villain! COUNTES S . But, with such a heart, my friend could not remain long in her delusion? M RS . H. Long enough to make sufficient penitence impossible. ’Tis true that in a few weeks the delirium was at an end. Oh! what were my sensations when the mist dispersed before my eyes! I called for my husband, but in vain! I listened for the prattle of my children, but in vain! COUNTES S . Check the recollection. I guess the end— you left your seducer? M RS . H. I did—and fled to you. To you, who have given me a spot where I might weep, and who will give me a spot where I may die. COUNTES S . (embracing her) Here, here, on this bosom only, shall your future tears be shed; and may I, dear sufferer, make you again familiar with hope. M RS . H. Oh! impossible! COUNTES S . Have you never heard of your children? M RS . H. Never! COUNTES S . We must endeavour to gain some account of them. We must—— Hold! my husband and my brother. Oh, my poor brother! I had quite forgotten him. Quick! dear Mrs. Haller, wipe your eyes. Let us meet them. M RS . H. Madam, I’ll follow. Allow me a moment to compose myself. Exit COUNTESS, l. I pause! Oh! yes—to compose myself! (ironically) She little thinks it is but to gain one solitary moment to vent my soul’s remorse. Once the purpose of my unsettled mind was self-destruction! Heaven knows how I have sued for hope and resignation. I did trust my prayers were heard. Oh! spare me further trial! I feel—I feel —my heart and brain can bear no more. Exit, r. 304

AUGUSTUS VON KOTZEBUE, THE STRANGER

... as soon as she sees the STRANGER, shrieks and swoons in the arms of the BARON and COUNTESS. The STRANGER casts a look at her, and struck with astonishment and horror, rushes out of the room, l. The BARON and COUNTESS supporting MRS. HALLER, COUNT standing motionless in great surprise.

MRS . HALLER

END OF ACT IV.

ACT V Scene I.—The Ante-chamber Enter BARON, l. Oh, deceitful hope! Thou phantom of future happiness! To thee have I stretched out my arms, and thou hast vanished into air! Wretched Steinfort! The mystery is solved—she is the wife of my friend! I cannot myself be happy, but I may, perhaps, be able to re-unite two noble hearts, whom cruel fate has severed. Ha! they are here; I must propose it instantly.

B ARON .

Enter COUNTESS. and MRS. HALLER, r. C OUNTESS . Into the garden, my dear friend; into the air! MRS. H. I am quite well. Do not alarm yourselves on my account. B ARON . Madam, pardon my intrusion, but to lose a moment may

be fatal: he means to quit the county tomorrow. We must devise means to reconcile you to—the Stranger. MRS. H. How, my lord? You seem acquainted with my history! B ARON . I am. Waldbourg has been my friend ever since we were boys. We served together from the rank of cadet. We have been separated seven years: chance brought us this day together, and his heart was open to me. MRS. H. Now do I feel what it is to be in the presence of an honest man, when I dare not meet his eye. (hides her face) B ARON . If sincere repentance—if years without reproach do not give us a title to man’s forgiveness, what must we expect hereafter? No, lovely penitent! your contrition is complete. Error, for a moment, wrested from slumbering virtue the dominion of your heart; but she awoke, and, with a look, banished her enemy for ever. I know my friend: he has the firmness of a man; but with it, the gentlest feelings of your sex. I hasten to him. (going) MRS. H. Oh, stay! What would you do? No, never! My husband’s honor is sacred to me. I love him unutterably, but never, never can I be his wife again; even if he were generous enough to pardon me. B ARON . Madam! Can you, Countess, be serious? 305

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Not that title, I beseech you! I am not a child, who wishes to avoid deserved punishment. What were my penitence, if I hoped advantage from it, beyond the consciousness of atonement for past offence? COUNTES S . But if your husband himself— M RS . H. Oh! he will not!—he cannot! And let him rest assured, I never would replace my honor at the expense of his. BARON . He still loves you. M RS . H. Loves me! Then he must not—Not—he must purify his heart from a weakness which would degrade him. BARON . Incomparable woman! I go to my friend—perhaps for the last time. Have you not one word to send him? M RS . H. Yes; I have two requests to make. Often, when, in excess of grief, I have despaired of every consolation, I have thought I should be easier if I might behold my husband once again, acknowledge my injustice to him, and take a gentle leave of him for ever. This, therefore, is my first request—a conversation for a few short minutes, if he does not quite abhor the sight of me. My second request is—Oh!—not to see, but to hear some account of my poor children. BARON . If humanity and friendship can avail, he will not for a moment delay your wishes. With the fire of pure disinterested friendship will I enter on this work; that when I look back upon my past life, I may derive from this good action, consolation in disappointment, and even resignation in despair. M RS. H.

Exit BARON, l. COUNTES S . Heaven be with you! M RS . H. And my prayers. COUNTES S . Come, my friend, come

into the air; till he returns with hope and consolation. M RS . H. Oh, my heart! how art thou afflicted! My husband! My little ones! Past joys and future fears—Oh, dearest madam! there are moments in which we live years—moments which steal the roses from the cheek of health, and plough deep furrows in the brow of youth. COUNTES S . Banish these sad reflections. Come, let us walk. The sun will set soon; lest nature’s beauties dissipate anxiety. M RS . H. Alas! Yes, the setting sun is a proper scene for me. COUNTES S . Never forget a morning will succeed. Exeunt, l.

Note 1 c. is centre; l. is left; and r. is right.

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42 E .T.A. HOFF M AN (17 7 6 – 1 8 2 2 ) , B E E THOVEN’S INSTR UM ENTAL MUSIC Trans. Arthur Ware Locke, The Musical Quarterly 3, no. 1 (1917): 127–133

Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann was a German Romantic author, known especially for his fantasy and Gothic horror. His novella, The Nutcracker and the Mouseking, was the basis of the ballet The Nutcracker. Hoffman was also a music critic, and his essay on Beethoven’s instrumental music particularly explored the latter’s Fifth Symphony and his Trios, op. 70. The essay was influential, published first in 1813 and several times thereafter, as well as being translated into English. One of the significant contributions of the piece was the idea that music was a higher art form, because it could be enjoyed for pure sound and form, not due to any additional meaning imposed upon it through language or art. Within this debate, the effectiveness of music was directly related to how it made people feel, where feeling was located as beyond culture. If music’s influence was to be experienced rather than explained, nonetheless Hoffman captured in words how the music of several influential instrumental composers of the period related to other art forms, and particularly described their emotional effects on the listener. The essay, which is beautifully written, provides insight into how Romantic music was expected to feel during the period, as well as theories of music and its emotional effects. … When we speak of music as an independent art, we should properly refer only to instrumental music which, scorning the assistance and association of another art, namely poetry, expresses that peculiar property which can be found in music only. It is the most romantic of all the arts, one might almost say the only really romantic art, for its sole object is the expression of the infinite. The lyre of Orpheus opens the doors of Orkus. Music discloses to man an unknown kingdom, a world having nothing in common with the external sensual world which surrounds him and in which he leaves behind him all definite feelings in order to abandon himself to an inexpressible longing. 307

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Have you even suspected this peculiar power of music, you pitiable instrumental composers who have taken such anxious pains to portray definite emotions, yes, even actual occurrences? How could you possibly conceive of using plastically that art which is just the opposite of sculpture? Your sunrises, your thunderstorms, your Batailles des trois Empereurs, etc., were nothing but ridiculous aberrations and have been deservedly punished by absolute oblivion. In song, where the words of the poem indicate definite effects, the magic power of music operates like that wonderful elixir of the sages, a few drops of which make every drink more exquisite and more delicious. The passions which are portrayed in opera—love, hate, anger, doubt—are clothed by music in the purple glow of romanticism, and the very experiences of life lead us out of life into the realm of the infinite. The ever-increasing magic power of music rends asunder the bonds of the other arts. That inspired composers have raised instrumental music to its present height is certainly not due to the improvement in the medium of expression, the perfecting of the instruments or the greater virtuosity of the performers, but comes rather from the deeper spiritual recognition of the peculiar nature of music. Mozart and Haydn, the creators of the instrumental music of to-day, show us the art for the first time in its full glory; the one who has looked on it with an allembracing love and penetrated its innermost being is—Beethoven! The instrumental compositions of all three masters breathe the same romantic spirit, which lies in a similar deep understanding of the essential property of the art; there is nevertheless a decided difference in the character of their compositions. The expression of a child-like joyous spirit predominates in those of Haydn. His symphonies lead us through boundless green woods, among a merry gay crowd of happy people. Young men and maidens pass by dancing; laughing children peeping from behind trees and rose-bushes playfully throw flowers at one another. A life full of love, of felicity, eternally young, as before the fall; no suffering, no sorrow, only a sweet melancholy longing for the beloved form that floats in the distance in the glow of the sunset, neither approaching nor vanishing, and as long as it is there night will not come for it is itself the evening glow which shines over mountain and wood. Mozart leads us into the depths of the spirit world. We are seized by a sort of gentle fear which is really only the presentiment of the infinite. Love and melancholy sound in the pure spirit voices; night vanishes in a bright purple glow and with inexpressible longing we follow the forms which, with friendly gestures, invite us into their ranks as they fly through the clouds in the never-ending dance of the spheres. (Mozart’s Symphony in E flat Major known as “The Swan Song.”) In the same way Beethoven’s instrumental music discloses to us the realm of the tragic and the illimitable. Glowing beams pierce the deep night of this realm and we are conscious of gigantic shadows which, alternately increasing and decreasing, close in on us nearer and nearer, destroying us but not destroying the pain of endless longing in which is engulfed and lost every passion aroused by the exulting sounds. And only through this very pain in which love, hope, and joy, consumed 308

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but not destroyed, burst forth from our hearts in the deep-voiced harmony of all the passions, do we go on living and become hypnotised seers of visions! An appreciation of romantic qualities in art is uncommon; romantic talent is still rarer. Consequently there are few indeed who are able to play on that lyre the tones of which unfold the wonderful region of romanticism. Haydn conceives romantically that which is distinctly human in the life of man; he is, in so far, more comprehensible to the majority. Mozart grasps more the superhuman, the miraculous, which dwells in the imagination. Beethoven’s music stirs the mists of fear, of horror, of terror, of grief, and awakens that endless longing which is the very essence of romanticism. He is consequently a purely romantic composer, and is it not possible that for this very reason he is less successful in vocal music which does not surrender itself to the characterization of indefinite emotions but portrays effects specified by the words rather than those indefinite emotions experienced in the realm of the infinite?1 Beethoven’s mighty genius oppresses the musical rabble; he excites himself in vain before them. But the wiseacres, looking around with serious countenances, assure us, and one can believe them as men of great understanding and deep insight, that the worthy B. does not lack a most abundant and lively imagination; but he does not know how to curb it. There can be no discussion of the choice and the formation of his ideas, but he scatters the good old rules in disorder whenever it happens to please him in the momentary excitement of his creative imagination. But what if the inner, underlying organic structure of these Beethoven compositions has escaped your superficial glance? What if the trouble is with you, that you do not understand the master’s speech, intelligible to those to whom it is dedicated? What if the gates to that innermost shrine remain closed to you?—In truth, quite on a level with Haydn and Mozart as a conscious artist, the Master, separating his Ego from the inner realm of sound, takes command of it as an absolute monarch. Aesthetic mechanicians have often lamented the absolute lack of underlying unity and structure in Shakespeare, while the deeper glance could see the beautiful tree with leaves, blossoms, and fruit growing from one germinating seed; so it is that only through a very deep study of Beethoven’s instrumental music is that conscious thoughtfulness of composition (Besonnenheit) disclosed which always accompanies true genius and is nourished by a study of art. What instrumental work of Beethoven testifies to this to a higher degree than the immeasurably noble and profound Symphony in C minor? How this marvellous composition carries the hearer irresistibly with it in its ever-mounting climax into the spirit kingdom of the infinite! What could be simpler than the main motive of the first allegro composed of a mere rhythmic figure which, beginning in unison, does not even indicate the key to the listener. The character of anxious, restless longing which this portion carries with it only brings out more clearly the melodiousness of the second theme!—It appears as if the breast, burdened and oppressed by the premonition of tragedy, of threatening annihilation, in gasping tones was struggling with all its strength for air; but soon a friendly form draws near and lightens the gruesome night. (The lovely theme in G major which is first 309

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taken up by the horn in E flat Major.)2—How simple—let us repeat once more—is the theme which the master has made the basis of the whole work, but how marvelously all the subordinate themes and bridge passages relate themselves rhythmically to it, so that they continually serve to disclose more and more the character of the allegro indicated by the leading motive. All the themes are short, nearly all consisting of only two or three measures, and besides that they are allotted with increasing variety first to the wind and then to the stringed instruments. One would think that something disjointed and confused would result from such elements; but, on the contrary, this very organization of the whole work as well as the constant reappearances of the motives and harmonic effects, following closely on one another, intensify to the highest degree that feeling of inexpressible longing. Aside from the fact that the contrapuntal treatment testifies to a thorough study of the art, the connecting links, the constant allusions to the main theme, demonstrate how the great Master had conceived the whole and planned it with all its emotional forces in mind. Does not the lovely theme of the Andante con moto in A flat sound like a pure spirit voice which fills our souls with hope and comfort?— But here also that terrible phantom which alarmed and possessed our souls in the Allegro instantly steps forth to threaten us from the thunderclouds into which it had disappeared, and the friendly forms which surrounded us flee quickly before the lightning. What shall I say of the Minuet?3 Notice the originality of the modulations, the cadences on the dominant major chord which the bass takes up as the tonic of the continuing theme in minor-and the extension of the theme itself with the looping on of extra measures. Do you not feel again that restless, nameless longing, that premonition of the wonderful spirit-world in which the Master holds sway? But like dazzling sunlight the splendid theme of the last movement bursts forth in the exulting chorus of the full orchestra.—What wonderful contrapuntal interweavings bind the whole together. It is possible that it may all sound simply like an inspired rhapsody to many, but surely the heart of every sensitive listener will be moved deeply and spiritually by a feeling which is none other than that nameless premonitory longing; and up to the last chord, yes, even in the moment after it is finished, he will not be able to detach himself from that wonderful imaginary world where he has been held captive by this tonal expression of sorrow and joy. In regard to the structure of the themes, their development and instrumentation, and the way they are related to one another, everything is worked out from a central point-of-view; but it is especially the inner relationship of the themes with one another which produces that unity which alone is able to hold the listener in one mood. This relationship is often quite obvious to the listener when he hears it in the combination of two themes or discovers in different themes a common bass, but a more subtle relationship, not demonstrated in this way, shows itself merely in the spiritual connection of one theme with another, and it is exactly this subtle relationship of the themes which dominates both allegros and the Minuet—and proclaims the self-conscious genius of the Master. How deeply, O! exalted Master! have your noble piano compositions penetrated into my soul; how hollow and meaningless in comparison all music seems which 310

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does not emanate from you, or from the contemplative Mozart, or that powerful genius, Sebastian Bach. With what joy I received your Opus 70, the two noble trios, for I knew so well that after a little practice I could play them to myself so beautifully. And it has been such a pleasure to me this evening that now, like one who wanders through the sinuous mazes of a fantastic park, among all kinds of rare trees, plants, and wonderful flowers, always tempted to wander further, I am unable to tear myself away from the marvelous variety and interweaving figures of your trios. The pure siren voices of your gaily varied and beautiful themes always tempt me on further and further. The talented lady who to-day played the first trio so beautifully just to please me, the Kapellmeister Kreisler, and before whose piano I am now sitting and writing, brought it home to me most clearly that we should honor only that which is inspired and that everything else comes from evil. Just now I have been playing over from memory some of the striking modulatory passages from the two trios. It is true that the piano (Flügel-Pianoforte)4 as an instrument is more adaptable to harmonic than to melodic uses. The most delicate expression of which the instrument is capable cannot give to the melody that mobile life in thousands and thousands of shadings which the bow of the violinist or the breath of the wind-instrument player is capable of giving. The player struggles in vain against that unconquerable difficulty set in his path by a mechanism which is based on the principle of making a string vibrate and sound as the result of percussion. On the other hand there is no instrument (with the exception of the much more limited harp) which has control to such a degree as the piano, with its completely grasped chords, of the kingdom of harmony, the treasures of which it discloses to the connoisseur in the most wonderful forms and images. When the imagination of the master has conceived the complete tone-picture with its many groups of figures, its bright lights and deep shadows, he can bring it to life on the piano with the result that it emerges from the world of his imagination all brightly coloured. The many-voiced score of this truly musical wonder-book, which portrays in its pictures all the wonders of the art of music even to the magic chorus of the varied instruments, comes to life under the hands of a virtuoso, and an effective polyphonic orchestral transcription played in the right way may well be compared to the artistic engraving of a great painting. Consequently the piano is exceptionally adapted for improvising, for transcribing orchestral scores, for unaccompanied sonatas, chord playing, etc.; and also for trios, quartets, quintets, etc., with the addition of the usual stringed instruments-compositions which really belong to the sphere of piano composition because, if composed in the right way, i.e. in four or five voices, they are based on harmonic development which naturally excludes the solo treatment of separate instruments in virtuoso passages. I have a strong aversion for all the usual piano concerti. (Those of Mozart and Beethoven are not so much concerti as symphonies with piano obbligato.) In such works the virtuosity of the solo player in passage playing and in melodic expression is supposed to be brought out; but the best player with the most beautiful instrument strives in vain for that which the violinist, for example, achieves with 311

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ease. Each solo passage sounds dry and lifeless after the sonorous tuttis of the violins and wind-instruments; and one is amazed at the finger agility, etc., without having one’s feelings at all stirred. How wonderfully the Master understood the characteristic spirit of the instrument and consequently handled it in its most appropriate manner! At the bottom of each movement there lies an effective singable theme, simple but fruitful of all the various contrapuntal developments, such as diminution, etc. All the other secondary themes and figures are organically related to this principal idea so that all the material divided among the different instruments is combined and ordered in the most complete unity. Such is the structure of the whole; but in this artistic structure the most wonderful pictures, in which joy and sorrow, melancholy and ecstacy, appear side by side, change in restless succession. Strange shapes begin a merry dance, now dissolving in a blur of light, now sparkling and flashing as they separate, chasing and following one another in kaleidoscopic groups; and in the midst of this unlocked spirit-world the ravished soul listens to the unknown language and understands all those mysterious premonitions by which it is possessed. Only that composer penetrates truly into the secrets of harmony who is able to stir the soul of man through harmony; to him, the mathematical proportions which to the grammarian without genius are only dry arithmetical problems, are magic combinations from which he can build a world of visions. In spite of the geniality which predominates in the first trio, not excepting the emotional Largo, Beethoven’s genius, as a whole, remains serious and religious in spirit. It seems as if the Master thought that one could not speak of deeply-hidden things in common words but only in sublime and noble language, even when the spirit, closely penetrating into these things, feels itself exalted with joy and happiness; the dance of the priests of Isis must take the form of an exultant hymn. Instrumental music must avoid all senseless joking and triviality, especially where it is intended to be taken as absolute music and not to serve some definite dramatic purpose. It explores the depths of the soul for the presentiments of a joy which, nobler and more beautiful than anything experienced in this narrow world, comes to us from the unknown land; it inflames in our breasts an inner, rapturous life, a more intense expression than is possible through words, which are appropriate only to our limited earthly feelings. This seriousness of all Beethoven’s instrumental and piano music proscribes all those breakneck passages for both hands up and down the piano, the curious leaps, the laughable capriccios, the skyscraper notes with five and six ledger line foundations, with which the latest piano compositions are filled. If it is a question of mere finger facility, the Master’s piano compositions are not difficult, for such scales, trill figures, etc., as are found in them should be in the fingers of every practiced pianist; and yet the performance of these compositions is certainly difficult. Many a so-called virtuoso condemns the Master’s piano compositions adding to the criticism, “Difficult,” the reproach, “and most ineffective!”—The difficulty lies in this, that the proper, unforced, performance of a Beethoven work requires nothing less than 312

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that one shall thoroughly understand it, shall penetrate into its deepest being, that the performer conscious of his own consecration to his purpose must dare boldly to enter into the circle of mystical visions which its powerful magic calls forth. He who does not feel this consecration, who only considers this sacred music as an entertainment, as something to pass the time when there is nothing else to do, as a mere temporary sensuous pleasure for dull ears, or for the benefit of showing himself off—he should leave this music alone. Such a one sympathizes with that criticism: “And most ineffective!” The genuine artist throws himself into the work, which he first comprehends from the point-of-view of the composer, and then interprets. He scorns the exploitation of his personality in any way whatever, and all his poetic imagination and intellectual understanding are bent towards the object of calling forth into active life, with all the brilliant colors at his command, the noble and enchanting images and visions which the Master with magic power has shut up in his work, that they may surround mankind in bright, sparkling rings and, enflaming his fancy and his innermost feelings, carry him in wild flights into the distant spirit kingdom of sound.

Notes 1 Cf. Wagner’s Zukunftsmusik: “The ample heritage and promise of both of these masters (Haydn and Mozart) was taken up by Beethoven; he matured the Symphonic art-work to so engrossing a breadth of form, and filled that form with so manifold and enthralling a melodic content, that we stand today before the Beethovenian Symphony as before the landmark of an entirely new period in the history of universal Art; for through it there came into the world a phenomenon not even remotely approached by anything the art of any age or any people has to show us. In this Symphony instruments speak a language whereof the world at no previous time had any knowledge; for here with a hitherto unknown persistence, the purely musical Expression enchains the hearer in an inconceivably varied mist of nuances; rouses his inmost being, to a degree unreachable by any other art; and in all its changefulness reveals an ordering principle so free and bold, that we can but deem it more forcible than any logic, yet without the laws of logic entering into it in the slightest—nay rather, the reasoning march of Thought, with its track of causes and effects, here finds no sort of foothold. So that this Symphony must positively appear to us a revelation from another world; and in truth it opens out a scheme (Zusammenhang) of the world’s phenomena quite different from the ordinary logical scheme, and whereof one foremost thing is undeniable-that it thrusts home with the most overwhelming conviction, and guides our Feeling with such a sureness that the logic-mongering Reason is completely routed and disarmed thereby.” Translation by W. A. Ellis. Wagner’s Prose Works. Vol. III. pp. 317–318. 2 G Major entrance of the Second Theme in the development section.—Tr. 3 The scherzo movement had no title in the original score.—Tr. 4 ‘The newly invented “Hammerklavier.”—Tr.

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43 E A R LY NINETEENTH- CENTURY SCOTTIS H BA LLADS

Ballads were a popular form of song across European cultures; some songs travelled widely and were well-known, others reflected local histories and musical styles. In the nineteenth century, middle-class antiquarians increasingly associated the ballad with a traditional peasant culture that many thought was dying out with industrialisation and similar economic and social transformations. In the hope of preserving this tradition, collectors began to preserve these songs, both by collecting printed versions of such music and by recording the lyrics and music of ballads that they encountered in a wide range of contexts. The ballads below were collected by William Motherwell (1797–1835), the Scottish poet, journalist and antiquarian. The two ballads below, Jamie Douglas, and Early of Aboyne, were well-known Scottish ballads that survive in other forms and tell local histories. Motherwell recorded that these versions were given to him by a Mrs Brown and Widow Nichol in the early decades of the nineteenth century. Little is known about the women who sang these ballads for him, although, based on Motherwell’s collecting patterns, they were likely elderly Scottish peasant women. Notably while the songs followed the general style and story of the song as they survive elsewhere, both had adapted it, suggestive of the oral tradition as a living tradition. The songs therefore provide insight into the emotional world and moral judgements of the singers who performed them. …

Mrs Brown, Jamie Douglas (1826) Waly waly up yon bank And Waly waly and up yon brae And waly by yon riverside Where me and my love were wont to gae My mither tauld me when I was young That young men’s love was ill to know But to her I would give nae ear And alas! My ain wand dings me now! 314

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But gin I had wist or I had kisst That young man’s love was sae ill to win I would hae lock’t my heart wi a key o gowd And pinn’d it wi a sillar pin When lairds and lords cam to this toun And gentleman o high degree I took my auld son in my arms And went to my chamber pleasantly But when lairds and lords come thro’ this toun And gentleman o high degree I must sit alone in the dark And the babies on nurses knee I had a nurse and she was fair She was dearly nurse to me She tokk my gae lord frae my side And used him in her company. Awa awa thou false blackwood Ay and an ill death may thou die Thou wast the first occasioner Of parting my gay lord and me When I was sick and very sick Sick I was and like to die I drew me near to my stairhead And I heard my own lord lichtly me Come down come down thou earl of marquis march? Come down come down and dine with me I’ll set thee on a chair of gowd And treat thee kindly on my knee When cockle shells grow siller bells And mussels grow on every tree When frost and snaw turn’s fiery ba’s Then I’ll come down and dine with thee When my father and mother got words That my gay lord had forsaken me They sent three score of soldiers told To bring me to my own countrie When I was in my coach was set My tenants all was with me tane They set them doun upon their knees And they beg’d me to come back again 315

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Fare ye well Jamie Douglas And are ye weel my babies three I wish you father may be kind To these three faces that I do see When we cam in by Edinburgh town My father and mother they met me The cymbols sounded on every side But alace they gave no comfort to me Hold your tongue my daughter dear And of your weeping let abee And I’ll give him a bill of divorce And I’ll get as good a lord to thee Hold your tongue my father dear And of your scoffing let me bee I would rather hae a kiss of my own lords mouth As all the lords in the north countries.

Widow Nichol, Earl of Aboyne (early nineteenth century) The Earl of Aboyne has up to London gone, And all his nobles with him, And three broad letters he sent into his love He would wed another woman in London. She has turned the honey month about, To see if he was coming, And lang three miles ere he came to the town, She heard his bridle ringing. She’s went down unto the close and she’s taen him from his horse, Says, ye’re welcome home from London! If I be as welcome, dear Peggy, as you say, Come kiss me for my coming. ‘Come kiss me, come kiss me, dear Peggy’, he said, ‘Come kiss me for my coming, For tomorrow should have been my wedding-day Had I tarried any longer in London.’ She has turned herself round about, And she was an angry woman: ‘If tomorrow should have been your wedding-day, You may kiss with your sweethearts in London.’

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‘Go saddle me my steed,’ he said, ‘Saddle and make him ready; For I must away to the bonny bog of Keith, For to visit the Marquis of Huntly.’ ‘Go ask him, go ask, dear Thomas’ she said, ‘Go ask if he’ll take me with him;’ ‘I’ve asked him once, and I’ll ask him no more, For ye’ll never ride a mile in his company.’ ‘Go make to me my bed,’ she said, ‘Make it soft and narrow; For since my true lover has slighted me so, I will die for him ere morrow.’ She has called her waiting-man, And Jean her gentlewoman: ‘Go bring me a glass of red wine, For I am as sick as any woman.’ The bed it was not made nor well laid down, Nor yet the curtains drawn on, Till stays and gown and all did burst, And its alace for bonny Peggy Irvine! The Earl of Aboyne was not at the Bog of Keith, Nor met wi the Earl of Huntly, Till three broad letters were sent after him That his Peggy Irvine had left him. He gave such a rap on the table where he sat It made all the room to tremble: ‘I would rather I had lost all the rents of Aboyne Than have lost my pretty Peggy Irivine.

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44 ALESS ANDRO M ANZONI (1785–1873), T HE BETROTHED (London: Richard Bentley, 1834), pp. 150–60

Alessandro Manzoni was an Italian writer and philosopher, whose novel The Betrothed is generally considered a masterpiece of Romantic literature. It is especially significant for Italian culture, offering one of the earliest examples of a unified Italian language and national identity. It was originally published in three volumes, between 1825–6, and was subsequently translated into most European languages. The book tells the story of the peasant, Renzo, and his betrothed Lucia, who has fallen into the hands of the village robber-baron Don Rodrigo. The plot follows Renzo as he pursues his love through a range of adventurous scenes, and conforms to a moral tale where the bad are punished, the virtuous rewarded and the church offers order in chaos. The scene excerpted below explores a moment of political unrest, where the crowd demand justice from their political leaders, believed to be hoarding food and selling it at a higher price, during a famine. Renzo is placed here as the hero, who while recognising that wrong had been done, nonetheless wishes to ensure that proper justice, not mob rule, is served. The account provides insight into how the experience of political unrest was imagined to have been felt by individuals, and the group, in the early nineteenth century, as well as providing a moral reading of such emotional activity for the external, middle-class observer. … THE unfortunate superintendent was at this moment painfully digesting his miserable dinner, whilst awaiting anxiously the termination of this hurricane; he was, however, far from suspecting that its greatest fury was to be spent on himself. Some benevolent persons hastened forward to inform him of his urgent peril. The servants, drawn to the door by the uproar, beheld, in affright, the dense mass advancing. While they listened to the friendly notice, the vanguard appeared; one hastily informed his master; and while he, for a moment, deliberated upon flight, another came to say there was no longer time for it; in hurry and confusion they closed and barricadoed the windows and the doors. The howling without increased; each corner of the house resounded with it; and in the midst of the vast and mingled noise was heard, fearfully and distinctly, the blows of stones upon the door. “The tyrant! the tyrant! the causer of famine! we must have him, living or dead!” 318

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The poor man wandered from room to room in a state of insupportable alarm, commending himself to God, and beseeching his servants to be firm, and to find for him some way of escape! He ascended to the highest floor, and, from an opening between the garret and the roof, he looked anxiously out upon the street, and beheld it filled with the enraged populace; more appalled than ever, he withdrew to seek the most secure and secret hiding-place. Here, concealed, he listened intently to ascertain if at any time the importunate transport of passion should weaken, if the tumult should in any degree subside; but his heart died within him to hear the uproar continue with aggravated and savage ferocity. Renzo at this time found himself in the thickest of the confusion, not now carried there by the press, but by his own inclination. At the first proposal of bloodshedding, he felt his own curdle in his veins; as to the plundering, he was not quite certain whether it was right or wrong; but the idea of murder caused him unmixed horror. And although he was greatly persuaded that the vicar was the primary cause of the famine, the grand criminal, still, having, at the first movement of the crowd, heard, by chance, some expressions which indicated a willingness to make any effort to save him, he had suddenly determined to aid such a work, and had therefore pressed near the door, which was assailed in a thousand ways. Some were pounding the lock to break it in pieces; others assisted with stakes, and chisels, and hammers; others, again, tore away the plastering, and beat in pieces the wall, in order to effect a breach. The rest, who were unable to get near the house, encouraged by their shouts those who were at the work of destruction; though, fortunately, through the eagerness with which they pressed forward, they impeded its progress. The magistrates, who were the first to have notice of the fray, despatched a messenger to ask military aid of the commander of the castle, which was then called, from the gate, Giovia; and he forthwith detached a troop, which arrived when the house was encompassed with the throng, and undergoing its tremendous assault; and was therefore obliged to halt at a distance from it, and at the extremity of the crowd. The officer who commanded it did not know what course to pursue; at the order to disperse and make way, the people replied by a deep and continued murmur, but no one moved. To fire on the crowd appeared not only savage, but perilous, inasmuch as the most harmless might be injured, and the most ferocious only irritated, and prepared for further mischief; and moreover his instructions did not authorise it. To break the crowd, and go forward with his band to the house, would have been the best, if success could have been certain; but who could tell if the soldiers could proceed united and in order? The irresolution of the commander seemed to proceed from fear: the populace were unmoved by the appearance of the soldiers, and continued their attacks on the house. At a little distance there stood an ill-looking, half-starved old man, who, contracting an angry countenance to a smile of diabolical complacency, brandished above his hoary head a hammer, with which he said he meant to nail the vicar to the posts of his door, alive as he was. “Oh, shame! shame!” exclaimed Renzo. “Shame! would you take the hangman’s business out of his hand? to assassinate a Christian? How can you expect 319

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God will give us bread, if we commit such iniquity? He will send us his thunders, and not bread!” “Ah! dog! ah! traitor to the country!” cried one who had heard these words, turning to Renzo with the countenance of a demon. “It is a servant of the vicar’s disguised like a countryman; it is a spy!” A hundred voices were heard exclaiming, “Who is it? where is he?”— “A servant of the vicar’s—a spy—the vicar himself, escaping in the disguise of a peasant!”—“Where is he? where is he?” Renzo would have shrunk into nothingness,—some of the more benevolent contrived to help him to disappear through the crowd; but that which preserved him most effectually was a cry of “Make way, here comes our help, make way!” which attracted the attention of the throng. This was a long scaling ladder, supported by a few persons who were endeavouring to penetrate the living mass, and by which they meant to gain entrance to the house. But, happily, this was not easy of execution; the length of the machine precluded the possibility of its being carried easily through such a multitude; it came, however, just in time for Renzo, who profited by the confusion, and escaped to a distance, with the intention of making his way, as soon as he could, to the convent, in search of Father Bonaventura. Suddenly a new movement began at one extremity, and diffused itself through the crowd:—“Ferrer, Ferrer!” resounded from every side. Some were surprised, some rejoiced, some were exasperated, some applauded, some affirmed, some denied, some blessed, some cursed! “Is he here? It is not true; it is not true. Yes, yes, long live Ferrer, he who makes bread cheap.—No, no He is here—here in a carriage! Why does he come? we don’t want him.—Ferrer! long live Ferrer! the friend of the poor! he comes to take the vicar prisoner.—No, no, we would revenge ourselves, we would fight our own battles; back, back.—Yes, yes, Ferrer! Let him come! to prison with the vicar!” At the extremity of the crowd, on the side opposite to that where the soldiers were, Antonio Ferrer, the high chancellor, was approaching in his carriage, who, probably condemning himself as the cause of this commotion, had come to avert at least its most terrific and irreparable effects, to spend worthily a popularity unworthily acquired. In popular tumults there are always some who, from heated passion, or fanaticism, or wicked design, do what they can to push things to the worst; proposing and promoting the most barbarous counsels, and assisting to stir the fire whenever it appears to slacken. But, on the other hand, there are always those who, perhaps with equal ardour, and equal perseverance, employ their efforts for the production of contrary effects; some led by friendship or partiality for the persons in danger, others without other impulse than that of horror of bloodshed and atrocity. The mass, then, is ever composed of a mixed assemblage, who, by indefinite gradations, hold to one or the other extreme; prompt to rage or compassion, to adoration or execration, according as the occasion presents itself for the developement of either of these sentiments: life and death are the words involuntarily uttered, and 320

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with equal facility; and he who succeeds in persuading them that such an one does not deserve to be quartered, has but little more to do, to convince them that he ought to be carried in triumph. While these various interests were contending for superiority in the mob, before the house of the vicar, the appearance of Antonio Ferrer gave instantly a great advantage to the humane, who were manifestly yielding to the greater strength of the ferocious and blood-thirsty. The man himself was acceptable to the multitude, from his having previously favoured their cause, and from his heroic resistance to any arguments against it. Those already favourably inclined towards him were now much more affected by the courageous confidence of an old man, who, without guards or retinue, came thus to confront an angry and stormy multitude. The announcement that his purpose was to take the vicar prisoner, produced at once a wonderful effect; and the fury against that unhappy person, which would have been aggravated by any attempt at defiance, or refusal of concession, now, with the promise of satisfaction, and, to speak in the Milanese fashion, with this bone in the mouth, became in a degree appeased, and gave place to other opposite sentiments, which began to prevail over their minds. The partisans of peace, having recovered breath, aided Ferrer in various ways; those who were near him, while endeavouring by their own to perpetuate the general applause, sought at the same time to keep off the crowd, so as to open a passage for the carriage; others applauded and repeated his words, or such as appeared appropriate to his undertaking and his peril; imposed silence on the obstinately furious, or contrived to turn against them the anger of the fickle assembly. “Who is it that will not say, Long live Ferrer? You don’t wish bread to be cheap, then, eh? They are rogues who are not willing to receive justice at the hands of a Christian, and there are some among them who cry louder than the rest, to allow the vicar to escape. To prison with the superintendent! Long live Ferrer! Make way for Ferrer!” The numbers of those who spoke in this manner increasing continually, the numbers of the opposite party diminished in proportion; so that the former, from admonishing, had recourse to blows, in order to silence those who were still disposed to pursue the work of destruction. The menaces and threatenings of the weaker party were of no longer avail; the cause of blood had ceased to predominate, and in its place were heard only the cries of “Prison, justice, Ferrer!” The rebellious spirits were finally silenced: the remainder took possession of the door, in order to defend it from fresh attacks, and also to prepare a passage for Ferrer; and some among them called to those within (openings were not wanting) that succour had arrived, and that the vicar must get ready “to go quickly—to prison—hem! do you hear?” “Is this the Ferrer who helps in making the proclamations?” asked our Renzo of one of his new neighbours, remembering the vidit Ferrera that the doctor had shown him appended to the famous proclamation, and which he had reiterated in his ears with so great a degree of pertinacity. “The same, the high chancellor,” replied he. “He is a worthy man, is he not?” 321

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“He is more than worthy; it is he who has lowered the price of bread, against the wishes of others in power, and now he comes to carry the vicar to prison, because he has not acted justly.” It is unnecessary to say, that Renzo’s feelings were immediately enlisted on the side of Ferrer. He was desirous to approach near him, but the undertaking was no easy one; however, with the decision and strength of a mountaineer, he continued to elbow himself through the crowd, and finally reached the side of the carriage. The carriage had already penetrated into the midst of the crowd, but was here suddenly stopped by one of those obstructions, the unavoidable consequence of a journey like this. The aged Ferrer presented, now at one window of his carriage, now at the other, a countenance full of humility, of sweetness, and benevolence; a countenance which he had always kept in reserve for the day in which he should appear before Don Philip IV.; but he was constrained to make use of it on this occasion. He spoke; but the noise and buzzing of so many voices, and the shouts of applause which they bestowed on him, allowed but little of his discourse to be heard. He had recourse also to gestures; now placing his fingers on his lips, to take from thence a kiss, which his enclosed hands distributed to right and left, as if to render thanks for the favour with which the public regarded him; then he extended them, waving them slowly beyond the window as if to entreat a little space; and now again lowering them politely, as if to request a little silence. When he had succeeded in obtaining, in some measure, his last request, those who were nearest to him heard and repeated his words:—“Bread, abundance. I come to do justice; a little space, if you please.” Then, as if stifled and suffocated with the press, and the continual buzzing of so many voices, he threw himself back in the carriage, and with difficulty drawing a long breath, said to himself, “Por mi vida, que de gente.”1 “Long live Ferrer; there is no occasion for fear; you are a brave man. Bread! bread!” “Yes, bread, bread,” replied Ferrer, “in abundance! I promise you, I do,” placing his hand on his heart. “Clear a passage for me,” added he, then, in the loudest voice he could command; “I come to carry him to prison, to inflict on him a just punishment;” and he added, in a very low tone, “Si esta culpable.”2 Then leaning forward to the coachman, he said hastily, “Adelante, Pedro, si puedes.”3 The coachman smiled also on the people with an affected politeness, as if he were some great personage; and, with ineffable grace, he waved the whip slowly from right to left, as if requesting his inconvenient neighbours to retire a little on either side. “Be so kind, gentlemen,” said he, “a little space, ever so little, just enough to let us pass.” Meanwhile the most active and officious employed themselves in preparing the passage so politely requested. Some made the crowd retire from before the horses with good words, placing their hands on their breast, and pushing them gently, “There, there, a little space, gentlemen.” Others pursued the same plan at the sides of the carriage, so that it might pass on without damage to those who surrounded it; which would have subjected the popularity of Antonio Ferrer to 322

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great hazard. Renzo, after having been occupied for a few moments in admiring the respectable old man, a little disturbed by vexation, overwhelmed with fatigue, but animated by solicitude, embellished, so to speak, by the hope of wresting a fellow-creature from the pains of death, Renzo, I say, threw away all idea of retreat. He resolved to assist Ferrer in every way that lay in his power, and not to abandon him until he had accomplished his designs. He united with the others to free the way, and he was certainly not one of the least active or industrious. A passage was opened. “Come on, come on,” said a number of them to the coachman, retiring in front of the crowd to maintain the passage clear. “Adelante, presto, con juicio,”4 said his master also to him, and the carriage moved forward. In the midst of the salutes which he lavished promiscuously on the public, Ferrer, with a smile of intelligence, bestowed particular thanks upon those whom he beheld busily employed for him; more than one of these smiles was directed to Renzo, who, in truth, deserved them richly, serving the high chancellor on this day with more devoted zeal than the most intrepid of his secretaries. The young mountaineer was delighted with his condescension, and proud of the honour of having, as he thought, formed a friendship with Antonio Ferrer. The carriage, once in motion, continued its way with more or less slowness, and not without being frequently brought to a full stop. The space to be traversed was short, but, with respect to the time it occupied, it would have appeared interminable, even to one not governed by the holy motive of Ferrer. The people thronged around the carriage, to right and left, as dolphins around a vessel, hurried forward by a tempest. The noise was more piercing and discordant than that of a tempest itself. Ferrer continued to speak to the populace the whole length of the way. “Yes, gentlemen, bread in abundance. I will conduct him to prison; he shall be punished—si esta culpable.5 Yes, yes, I will order it so; bread shall be cheap. Asi es. So it shall, I mean. The king our master does not wish his faithful subjects to suffer from hunger. Oh, oh! guardaos.6 Take care that we do not hurt you, gentlemen, Pedro, adelante, con juicio.7 Abundance! Abundance! a little space, for the love of Heaven! Bread, bread! To prison! to prison! What do you want?” demanded he of a man who had thrust himself partly within the window to howl at him some advice, or petition, or applause, no matter what; but he, without having heard the question, had been drawn back by another, who saw him in danger of being crushed by the wheel. Amidst all this clamour, Ferrer at last gained the house, thanks to his kind auxiliaries. Those who had stationed themselves there had equally laboured to procure the desired result, and had succeeded in dividing the crowd in two, and keeping them back, so that between the door and the carriage there should be an empty space, however small. Renzo, who in acting as a scout and a guide had arrived with the carriage, was able to find a place, whence he could, by making a rampart of his powerful shoulders, see distinctly all that passed. Ferrer breathed again on seeing the place free, and the door still shut, or, to speak more correctly, not yet open. However, the hinges were nearly torn from their fastenings, and the panels shivered in many pieces; so that an opening was 323

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made, through which it could be seen that what held it together was the bolt, which, however, was almost twisted from its socket. Through this breach some one cried to those within to open the door, another ran to let down the steps of the carriage, and the old man descended from it, leaning on the arm of this benevolent person. The crowd pressed forward to behold him: curiosity and general attention caused a moment’s silence. Ferrer stopped an instant on the steps, turned towards them, and putting his hand to his heart, said, “Bread and justice.” Clothed in his toga, with head erect, and step assured, he continued to descend, amid the loud applause that rent the skies. In the mean while the people of the house had opened the door, so as to permit the entrance of so desired a guest; taking care, however, to contract the opening to the space his body would occupy. “Quick, quick!” said he, “open, so that I may enter; and you, brave men, keep back the people, do not let them come behind me—for the love of Heaven! Open a way for us, presently.—Eh! eh gentlemen, one moment,” said he to the people of the house; “softly with this door; let me pass. Oh, my ribs, take care of my ribs. Shut now—no, my gown, my gown!” It would have remained caught within the door if Ferrer had not hastily withdrawn it. The doors, closed in the best manner they could be, were nevertheless supported with bars from within. On the outside, those who had constituted themselves the bodyguard of Ferrer worked with their shoulders, their arms, and their voice to keep the place empty, praying from the bottom of their hearts that they would be expeditious. “Quick, quick!” said Ferrer, as he reached the portico, to the servants who surrounded him, crying, “May your excellency be rewarded! What goodness! Great God, what goodness!” “Quick, quick,” repeated Ferrer, “where is this poor man?” The superintendent descended the stairs half led, half carried by his domestics, and pale as death. When he saw who had come to his assistance, he sighed deeply, his pulse returned, and a slight colour tinged his cheek. He hastened to meet Ferrer, saying, “I am in the hands of God and your excellency; but how go hence? we are surrounded on all sides by people who desire my death.” “Venga con migo usted,8 and take courage. My carriage is at the door; quick, quick!” He took him by the hand, and, continuing to encourage him, led him towards the door, saying in his heart, however, Aqui esta el busilis! Dios nos valga!9 The door opened; Ferrer appeared first; the superintendent followed, shrinking with fear, and clinging to the protecting toga, as an infant to the gown of its mother. Those who had maintained the space free raised their hands and waved their hats; making in this manner a sort of cloud to conceal the superintendent from the view of the people, and to enable him to enter the carriage, and place himself out of sight. Ferrer followed, and the carriage was closed. The people drew their own conclusions as to what had taken place, and there arose, in consequence, a mingled sound of applauses and imprecations. 324

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The return of the carriage might seem to be even more difficult and dangerous; but the willingness of the public to suffer the superintendent to be carried to prison was sufficiently manifest; and the friends of Ferrer had been busy in keeping the way open whilst he was at the house, so that he could return with a little more speed than he went. As it advanced, the crowd, ranged on either side, closed and united their ranks behind it. Ferrer, as soon as he was seated, whispered the superintendent to keep himself concealed in the bottom of the carriage, and not to let himself be seen, for the love of Heaven; there was, however, no need of this advice. It was the policy of the high chancellor, on the contrary, to attract as much of the attention of the populace as possible, and during all this passage, as in the former, he harangued his changeable auditory with a great quantity of sound, and very little sense; interrupting himself continually to breathe into the ear of his invisible companion a few hurried words of Spanish. “Yes, gentlemen, bread and justice. To the castle, to prison under my care. Thanks, thanks, a thousand thanks! No, no, he shall not escape! Por ablander los.10 It is too just, we will examine, we will see. I wish you well. A severe punishment. Esto lo digo por su bien.11 A just and moderate price, and punishment to those who oppose it. Keep off a little, I pray you. Yes, yes; I am the friend of the people. He shall be punished; it is true; he is a villain, a rascal. Perdone usted.12 He shall be punished, he shall be punished—si esta culpable.13 Yes, yes; we will make the bakers do that which is just. Long live the king! long live the good Milanese, his faithful subjects! Animo estamos ya quasi afuera.”14 They had, in fact, passed through the thickest of the throng, and were rapidly advancing to a place of safety; and now Ferrer gave his lungs a little repose, and looking forward, beheld the succours from Pisa, those Spanish soldiers, who had at last rendered themselves of service, by persuading some of the people to retire to their homes, and by keeping the passage free for the final escape.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Upon my life, what a multitude. If he is guilty. Go on, Pedro, if you can. On, on, but be careful. If he is guilty. Oh, oh! take care. On, Pedro, but be careful. Come with me. Now for the difficult point! God help us! It is to coax them. I say that for your good. Pardon me. If he is guilty. Courage, we are almost out of danger.

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Like William Motherwell (source 43), antiquarians across Europe were trying to preserve traditional oral culture during the nineteenth century, collecting stories and songs from a range of communities. In some contexts, such literatures were viewed as evidence of ‘national’ culture, distinct from art forms like the novel or opera that were enjoyed across Europe. As markers of the nation, a number of writers sought to perfect, emulate and evolve oral tradition, producing new works often closely based on or adapted from older tales. Freiderich Kreutzwald (1803–1882) was one such Estonian writer, the author of the national epic Kalevipoeg, a story based on oral tradition. He also wrote and retold a number of shorter tales. These were translated into English by William Forsell Kirby (1844–1912), an English entomologist and folklorist. His translations, especially of the Finnish epic Kalevala, were influential on other European writers, including J.R.R. Tolkien (1892–1973). Below are two tales, told by Kreutzwald and translated by Kirby, from his collection of Estonian stories. They offer insight into how the Estonian community personified natural processes – eclipse of the moon, drought – through stories of people and gods, who shared similar emotions, desires and foibles as man. Thus, they also offer evidence of how Estonian oral tradition understood emotions as drivers of human, and more than human, behaviour. …

Freiderich Kreutzwald (1803–1882), ‘The Maiden at Vaskjala Bridge’, in The Hero of Esthonia and Other Studies in the Romantic Literature of that Country, compiled W.F. Kirby, 2 vols (London: John C. Nimmo, 1895), pp. 34–36 ON a beautiful and quiet summer evening many years ago, a pious maiden went to the Vaskjala1 Bridge to bathe and refresh herself after the heat of the day. The sky was clear, and the song of the nightingale re-echoed from the neighbouring alder thicket. The Moon ascended to his heavenly pavilion, and gazed down with friendly eyes on the wreath of the maiden with the golden hair and rosy cheeks. The maiden’s heart was pure and innocent, and modest and clear as the waters of 326

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the spring to its very depths. Suddenly she felt her heart beat faster, and a strange longing seized her, and she could no longer turn her eyes away from the face of the Moon. For because she was so good and pure and innocent, she had won the love of the Moon, who desired to fulfil her secret longings and the wish of her heart. But the pious maiden cherished but one wish in her heart, which she could not venture to express or to ask the Moon to fulfil, for she longed to depart from this world and to dwell for ever beneath the sky with the Moon, but the Moon knew the unexpressed thoughts of her heart. It was again a lovely evening. The air was calm and peaceful, and again the song of the nightingale resounded through the night. The Moon gazed down once more into the depths at the bottom of the river near the Vaskjala Bridge, but no longer alone as before. The fair face of the maiden gazed down with him into the depths, and has ever since been visible in the Moon. Above in the far sky she lives in joy and contentment, and only desires that other maidens might share her happiness. So on moonlight nights her friendly eyes gaze down on her mortal sisters, and she seeks to invite them as her guests. But none among them is so pure and modest and innocent as herself, and therefore none is worthy to ascend to her in the Moon. Sometimes this troubles the maiden in the Moon, and she hides her face sorrowfully in a black veil. Yet she does not abandon all hope, but trusts that on some future day one of her earthly sisters may be found sufficiently pious and pure and innocent for the Moon to call her to share this blessed life. So from time to time the Moon-maiden gazes down on the earth with increasing hope and laughing eyes, with her face unveiled, as on the happy evening when she first looked down from heaven on the Vaskjala Bridge. But the best and most intelligent of the daughters of earth fall into error and wander into by-paths, and none among them is pious and innocent enough to become the Moon’s companion. This makes the heart of the pious Moon-maiden sorrowful again, and she turns her face from us once more, and hides it under her black veil.

Freiderich Kreutzwald, ‘The Son of the Thundergod’, in The Hero of Esthonia and Other Studies in the Romantic Literature of that Country, compiled W.F. Kirby, 2 vols (London: John C. Nimmo, 1895), pp. 149–158 ONCE upon a time the son of the Thunder-God made a compact with the Devil.2 It was agreed that the Devil was to serve him faithfully for seven years, and to do everything which his master required of him, after which he was to receive his master’s soul as a reward. The Devil fulfilled his part of the bargain faithfully. He never shirked the hardest labour nor grumbled at poor living, for he knew the reward he had to expect. Six years had already passed by, and the seventh had begun; but the Thunderer’s son had no particular inclination to part with his soul so easily, and looked about for some trick by which he could escape the necessity of fulfilling his share of the bargain. He had already tricked the Devil when the compact was signed, for instead of signing it with his own blood, he had signed it 327

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with cock’s blood, and his short-sighted adversary had not noticed the difference. Thus the bond which the Devil thought perfectly secure was really a very doubtful one. The end of the time was approaching, and the Thunderer’s son had not yet attempted to regain his freedom, when it happened one day that a black cloud arose in the sky, which foreboded a violent thunderstorm. The Devil immediately crept down underground, having made himself a hiding-place under a stone for that purpose. “Come, brother,” said he to his master, “and keep me company till the tempest is over.” “What will you promise me if I fulfil your request?” said the Thunderer’s son. The Devil thought they might settle this down below, for he did not like to talk over matters of business just then, when the storm was threatening to break over them at any moment. The Thunderer’s son thought, “The Old Boy seems quite dazed with terror to-day, and who knows whether I may not be able to get rid of him after all?” So he followed him into the cave. The tempest lasted a long time, and one crash of thunder followed another, till the earth quaked and the rocks trembled. At every peal the Old Boy pushed his fists into his ears and screwed up his eyes tight; a cold sweat covered his shaking limbs, and he was unable to utter a word. In the evening, when the storm was over, he said to the Thunderer’s son, “If your old dad did not make such a noise and clatter now and then, I could get along with him very well, for his arrows could not hurt me underground. But this horrible clamour upsets me so much that I am ready to lose my senses, and hardly know what I am about. I should be willing to offer a great reward to any one who would release me from this annoyance.” The Thunderer’s son answered, “The best plan would be to steal the thunder-weapon from my old dad.”3 “I’d do it if it were possible,” answered the Devil, “but old Kou is always on the alert. He keeps watch on the thunder-weapon day and night; and how is it possible to steal it?” But the Thunderer’s son still maintained that the feat was possible. “Ay, if you would help me,” cried the Devil, “we might perhaps succeed, but I can’t manage it by myself.” The Thunderer’s son promised to help him, but demanded no less a reward than that the Devil should abandon his claim to his soul. “You may keep the soul with all my heart,” cried the Devil delighted, “if you will only release me from this shocking worry and anxiety.” Then the Thunderer’s son began to explain how he thought the business might be managed, if they both worked well together. “But,” he added, “we must wait till my old dad again tires himself out so much as to fall into a sound sleep, for he generally sleeps with open eyes, like the hares.” Some time after this conversation, another violent thunderstorm broke out, which lasted a great while. The Devil and the Thunderer’s son again retreated to their hiding-place under the stone. Terror had so stupefied the Old Boy, that he could not hear a word of what his companion said. In the evening they both climbed a high mountain, when the Old Boy took the Thunderer’s son on his shoulders, and began to stretch himself out by his magic power higher and higher, singing— “Higher, brother, higher, To the Cloudland nigher,” 328

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till he had grown up to the edge of the clouds. When the Thunderer’s son peeped over the edge of the clouds, he saw his father Kou sleeping quietly, with his head resting on a pillow of clouds, but with his right hand resting across the thunderinstrument. He could not seize the weapon, for he would have roused the sleeper by touching his hand. The Thunderer’s son now crept from the Devil’s shoulder along the clouds as stealthily as a cat, and taking a louse from behind his own ear, he set it on his father’s nose. The old man raised his hand to scratch his nose, when his son grasped the thunder-weapon, and jumped from the clouds on to the back of the Devil, who ran down the mountain as if fire was burning behind him, and he did not stop till he reached Pōrgu. Here he hid the stolen property in an iron chamber secured by seven locks,4 thanked the Thunderer’s son for his friendly aid, and relinquished all claims upon his soul. But now a misfortune fell upon the world and men which the Thunderer’s son had not foreseen, for the clouds no longer shed a drop of moisture, and everything withered away with drought.5 “If I have thoughtlessly brought this unexpected misery on the people,” thought he, “I must try to repair the mischief as best I can.” So he travelled north to the frontiers of Finland, where a noted sorcerer lived, and told him the whole story, and where the thunder-weapon was now hidden. Then said the sorcerer, “First of all, you must tell your old father Kōu where the thunderweapon is hidden, and he will be able to find means for recovering his property himself.” And he sent the Eagle of the North to carry the tidings to the old Father of the Clouds. Next morning Kōu himself called upon the sorcerer to thank him for having put him on the track of the stolen property. Then the Thunderer changed himself into a boy, and offered himself to a fisherman as a summer workman. He knew that the Devil often came to the lake to catch fish, and he hoped to encounter him there. Although the boy Pikker watched the net day and night, it was some time before he caught sight of his enemy. It often happened to the fisherman that when he left his nets in the lake at night, they had been emptied before the morning, but he could not discover the cause. The boy knew very well who stole the fish, but he would not say anything about it till he could show his master the thief. One moonlight night, when the fisherman and the boy came to the lake to examine the nets, they found the thief at work. When they looked into the water over the side of their boat, they saw the Old Boy taking the fishes from the meshes of the net and putting them into a bag over his shoulder. Next day the fisherman went to a celebrated sorcerer and asked him to use his magic to cause the thief to fall into the net, and to enchant him so that he could not escape without the owner’s consent. This was arranged just as the fisherman wished. Next day, when the net was drawn up, they drew up the Devil to the surface and brought him ashore. And what a drubbing he received from the fisherman and his boy; for he could not escape from the net without the consent of the sorcerer. The fisherman gave him a ton’s weight of blows on the body, without caring where they fell. The Devil soon presented a piteous sight, but the fisherman and his boy felt no pity for him, but only rested awhile, and then began their work afresh. Entreaties were useless, and at last the Devil promised the fisherman the half of all his goods if he would only 329

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release him from the spell. But the enraged fisherman would listen to nothing till his own strength failed so completely that he could no longer move his stick. At length, after a long discussion, it was arranged that the Old Boy should be released from the net with the sorcerer’s aid, and that the fisherman and his boy should accompany the Devil to receive his ransom. No doubt he hoped to get the better of them by some stratagem. A grand feast was prepared for the guests in the hall of Pōrgu, which lasted for a whole week, and there was plenty of everything. The aged host exhibited his treasures and precious hoards to his visitors, and made his players perform before the fisherman in their very best style. One morning the boy Pikker said to the fisherman, “If you are again feasted and feted to-day, ask for the instrument which is in the iron chamber behind seven locks.” The fisherman took the hint, and in the middle of the feast, when everybody was half-seas over, he asked to see the instrument in the secret chamber. The Devil was quite willing, and he fetched the instrument, and tried to play upon it himself. But although he blew into it with all his strength, and shifted his fingers up and down the pipe, he was not able to bring a better tone from it than the cry of a cat when she is seized by the tail, or the squeaking of a decoy-pig at a wolfhunt. The fisherman laughed, and said, “Don’t give yourself so much trouble for nothing. I see well enough that you’ll never make a piper. My boy can manage it much better.” “Oho,” said the Devil, “you seem to think that playing this instrument is like playing the flageolet, and that it is mere child’s play. Come, friend, try it; but if either you or your boy can bring anything like a tune out of the instrument, I won’t be prince of hell any longer. Only just try it,” said he, handing the instrument to the boy. The boy Pikker took the instrument, but when he put it to his mouth and blew into it, the walls of hell shook, and the Devil and his company fell senseless to the ground and lay as if dead. In place of the boy the old Thunder-god himself stood by the fisherman, and thanked him for his aid, saying, “ In future, whenever my instrument is heard in the clouds, your nets will be well filled with fish.” Then he hastened home again. On the way his son met him, and fell on his knees, confessing his fault, and humbly asking pardon. Then said Father Kōu, “The frivolity of man often wars against the wisdom of heaven, but you may thank your stars, my son, that I have recovered the power to annihilate the traces of the suffering which your folly has brought on the people.” As he spoke, he sat down on a stone, and blew into the thunder-instrument till the raingates were opened, and the thirsty earth could drink her fill. Old Kōu took his son into his service, and they live together still.

Notes 1 According to Jannsen, the forest which once surrounded the river Vaskia, which flows through a village of the same name near Revel, was formerly sacred to a goddess named Vaskia. 2 There is a variant of this story (Pikne’s Trumpet: Kreutzwald) in which Tühi himself steals the trumpet while Pikne is asleep. Pikne is afraid to apply for aid to the Old Father, for fear of being punished for losing it, but recovers it by an artifice similar to that

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employed in the present story. This is interesting as showing Pikne to be only a subordinate deity. Löwe considers the Thunderer’s musical instrument to be a bagpipe. 3 He does not call his father Vanaisa, which would identify him with the Supreme God, but uses another term, Vana taat. 4 As Louhi, in the Kalevala, secures the magic mill, the Sampo. 5 This story is probably connected with the Finnish and Esthonian legends of the theft of the sun and moon by sorcerers.

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46 JOA QUÍN S OROLLA Y BASTI DA (186 3–1923), SPANI SH SOCI AL REALIS T PAINTI NGS

Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida was a Spanish realist painter who produced work on mythological, historical and social themes, not least the everyday lives of Spanish people at the turn of the twentieth century. Like many artists of the period, Sorolla’s work often offered social commentary on the things that they depicted, providing a moral message or impetus for social reform. White Slave Trade depicts a group of sex workers, travelling together with their ‘madam’ on a train. Another Marguerite displays a woman being transported by train under arrest for infanticide; her name alludes to Goethe’s tragic play Faust, where the character Margaret committed a similar crime. And They Still Say Fish Is Expensive! portrays a young sailor, injured at work, and lying in the hold of the boat as his companions attempt to save his life. These widely-acclaimed, often award-winning works, captured social ‘problems’ for Spanish society, using emotive titles that force the viewer to reflect on the scene as a wrong that needed redress. The emotional efficacy of the images is heightened through the expressions displayed on the bodies of the subject – downcast, pale, exhausted, or caring and kind – while the warm light, so often tied to morality in Christian culture, located those portrayed as innocents, rather than sinners. Sorolla deployed both narrative and aesthetic techniques to enhance the message of his image and to move his audience towards action. …

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Figure 46.1 Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida (1863–1923), White Slave Trade (Trata de blancas), Oil on canvas, 1895, Museo Sorolla, Madrid. Note; for mores details see: www.culturaydeporte.gob.es/msorolla/colecciones/coleccionesdel-museo/ pintura/trata-de-blancas.html.

Figure 46.2 Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida (1863–1923), Another Marguerite! (Otra Margarita!), Oil on canvas, 1892, Mildred Lane Kemper Art Museum. Note: for more details see: www.kemperartmuseum.wustl.edu/collection/explore/artwork/1351.

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Figure 46.3 Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida (1863–1923), And They Still Say Fish is Expensive! (Aún dicen que el pescado es caro), Oil on canvas, 1894, Museo De Prado. Note: for more details see: www.museodelprado.es/en/the-collection/art-work/and-they-still-say-fishis-expensive/a4fcf4c7–4d54–4e50–9255–25b44f0e0416.

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47 E MILY LAWLESS (18 4 5 – 1 9 1 3 ) , WITH THE WIL D GEES E (London: Isbister & Co, 1902)

Emily Lawless was an Irish novelist, historian and poet, whose work contributed to early modernism. She came from an elite Protestant family, the fourth child of Baron Cloncurry, but her ancestors had nationalist sympathies, with her grandfather a member of the United Irishmen (see source 26). Her innovative Wild Geese poems combined accounts of historical events, largely of the Irish wars with Britain in the early modern period, with an emotive experiential narrative. The wild geese was the name given to the Irish who left the country in 1691, following the Battle of Aughrim, and so the poems contribute to a central theme within Irish literature of exile from home and a nation dispersed. Lawless’s collection is marked by melancholy, exploring grief, loss, and death, and where the natural environment – sea, cliffs, wind – are deployed to reinforce such feelings both of attachment to home and land and to suggest the sublimity of such emotion. As sources for the history of emotion, the poems not only give insight into how the nation can be personified in emotional terms, but to the emotional register with which events like war and death were met during the early twentieth century. If death produces a sublime grief, such feelings were nonetheless located as fundamental to Irish identity. …

With the wild geese “Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan him, but weep for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more, nor shall he be seen again in his own country.”

After aughrim1 SHE said, “They gave me of their best, They lived, they gave their lives for me; I tossed them to the howling waste, And flung them to the foaming sea.” 335

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She said, “I never gave them aught, Not mine the power, if mine the will; I let them starve, I let them bleed, They bled and starved, and loved me still.” She said, “Ten times they fought for me. Ten times they strove with might and main, Ten times I saw them beaten down, Ten times they rose, and fought again.” She said, “I stayed alone at home, A dreary woman, grey and cold; I never asked them how they fared, Yet still they loved me as of old.” She said, “I never called them sons, I almost ceased to breathe their name, Then caught it echoing down the wind, Blown backwards from the lips of Fame.” She said, “Not mine, not mine that fame; Far over sea, far over land, Cast forth like rubbish from my shores, They won it yonder, sword in hand.” She said, “God knows they owe me nought, I tossed them to the foaming sea, I tossed them to the howling waste, Yet still their love comes home to me.”

The choice I I WHO speak to you abide, with my choice on either side, With my fortune all to win and all to wear. Shall I take this proffered gain? Shall I keep the loss and pain, With my own to live and bear? For the choice is open now, I must either stand or bow, Secure this beckoning sunshine, or else accept the rain. Must be banished with my own, or my race and faith disown? Share the loss, or snatch the gain? Shall I pay the needed toll, just the purchase of a soul, Heart and lips, faith and promises to sever? Six centuries of strain, six centuries of pain, Six centuries cry, “Never.” 336

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Then let who will abide, for me the Fates decide, One road, and only one, for me they show. There is room enough out there, room to pray, and room to dare, Room out yonder—and I go!

The choice II HEART of my heart, I sicken to be with you, Heart of my heart, my only love and care; Little I’d reck if ill or well you used me, Heart of my heart, if I were only there. Heart of my heart, I faint, I pine to see you, Christ! how I hate this alien sea and shore! Gaily this night I’d sell my soul to see you, Heart of my heart whom I shall see no more.

Dirge for all Ireland. 15812 FALL gently, pitying rains! Come slowly, Spring! Ah, slower, slower yet! No notes of glee, No minstrelsy! Nay, not one bird must sing His challenge to the season. See, oh see! Lo, where she lies, Dead with wide-open eyes, Unsheltered from the skies, Alone, unmarked, she lies! Then, sorrow, flow; And ye, dull hearts, that brook to see her so. Depart! go! go! Depart, dull hearts, and leave us to our woe. Drop, forest, drop your sad accusing tears, Send your soft rills adown the silent glades, Where yet the pensive yew its branches rears, Where yet no axe affronts the decent shades. Pronounce her bitter woe, Denounce her furious foe, Her piteous story show, That all may know. Then quickly call Your young leaves. Bid them from their stations tall Fall! fall! fall! fall! 337

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Till of their green they weave her funeral pall. And ye, cold waves, who guard that western slope, Show no white crowns. This is no time to wear The livery of Hope. We have no hope. Blackness and leaden greys befit despair Roll past that open grave, And let thy billows lave Her whom they could not save. Then open wide Your western arms, to where the rain-clouds bide, And hide! hide! hide! Let none discern the spot where she hath died.

Honor’s Grave TENDER soul of womanhood, All her silent suffering past, Pious, pitiful, and good, Safe at last; Sheltered from the rough wind’s blast. Veiling mists, which come and go, With transparent fingers mark Where she lies. Remote and low, Hark! Oh hark! What voice whispers through the dark? Very soundly doth she sleep, Though around the blown-sand flies, Though above the storm-clouds sweep The burdened skies. She hears nothing where she lies. Ancient cross, misused and grey, Ancient cross, with broken arms, Hold her, shield her night and day, Safe from harms; Shield her by thy sovereign charms. Tiny snail-shells, pencilled, pale, In the sands about her lie; Tiny grass-tufts, thin and frail, Cluster slenderly, Gather round her tenderly. Ave Maria! mother mild, Mary, unto whom she prayed, 338

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Shield thy loving-hearted child, Gentle maid! Shield the spot where she is laid.

Notes 1 The Battle of Aughrim was fought on the 12 July 1691, as part of the Williamite War. 5–7,000 people were killed. 2 The Desmond Wars were fought to maintain Irish independence from the English throne.

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