Historicising Heritage and Emotions: The Affective Histories of Blood, Stone and Land from Medieval Britain to Colonial Australia 1138202827, 9781138202825

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Historicising Heritage and Emotions

Historicising Heritage and Emotions examines how heritage is connected to and between people and places through emotion, both in the past and today. Discussion is focused on the overlapping categories of blood (families and bloodlines), stone (monuments and memorials) and land (landscape and places imbued with memories), with the contributing authors exploring the ways in which emotions invest heritage with affective power, and the transformative effects of this power in individual, community and cultural contexts. The 13 chapters that make up the volume take examples from the premodern and modern eras, and from two connected geographical regions: the United Kingdom, and Australia and the Pacific. Each chapter seeks to identify, historicise and contextualise the processes of heritage and the emotional regimes at play, locating the processes within longer historical and transnational genealogies and critically appraising them as part of broader cultural currents. Theoretically grounded in new approaches to the history of emotions and critical heritage studies, the analysis challenges the traditional scholarly focus on heritage in its modern forms, offering multifaceted premodern and modern case studies that demonstrate heritage and emotion to have complex and vibrant histories. Offering transhistorical and multidisciplinary discussion around the ways in which we can talk about, discuss, categorise and theorise heritage and emotion in different historical contexts, Historicising Heritage and Emotions is a valuable resource for students and scholars interested in heritage, emotions and history. Alicia Marchant is a historian of emotions and heritage based at the Australian Research Council Centre of Excellence for the History of Emotions, Europe 1100–1800 at the University of Western Australia. Her previous publications have included work on river histories, the Stone of Scone, cartography, dark tourism and Shakespeare.

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Routledge Studies in Heritage

5 Counterheritage Critical Perspectives on Heritage Conservation in Asia Denis Byrne 6 Industrial Heritage Sites in Transformation Clash of Discourses Edited by Heike Oevermann and Harald A. Mieg 7 Conserving Cultural Heritage Challenges and New Directions Edited by Ken Taylor, Archer St Clair, and Nora Mitchell 8 The Making of Heritage Seduction and Disenchantment Edited by Camila del Mármol, Marc Morell and Jasper Chalcraft 9 Heritage and Memory of War Responses from Small Islands Edited by Gilly Carr and Keir Reeves 10 Marie Antoinette at Petit Trianon Heritage Interpretation and Visitor Perceptions Denise Major-​Barron 11 Heritage after Conflict Northern Ireland Edited by Elizabeth Crooke and Tom Maguire 12 Historicising Heritage and Emotions The Affective Histories of Blood, Stone and Land Edited by Alicia Marchant www.routledge.com/​Routledge-​Studies-​in-​Heritage/​book-​series/​RSIHER

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Historicising Heritage and Emotions The Affective Histories of Blood, Stone and Land Edited by Alicia Marchant

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First published 2019 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 selection and editorial matter, Alicia Marchant; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Alicia Marchant 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 Names: Marchant, Alicia, editor. Title: Historicising heritage and emotions : the affective histories of blood, stone and land / edited by Alicia Marchant. Description: First edition. | Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, [2019] | Identifiers: LCCN 2018045786 (print) | LCCN 2018045996 (ebook) | ISBN 9781315472898 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781138202825 (hardback : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Cultural property–Psychological aspects. | Historic preservation–Psychological aspects. | Emotions–History. | Historic sites–Great Britain–Social aspects. | Historic sites–Great Britain–Colonies–Social aspects. Classification: LCC CC135 (ebook) | LCC CC135 .H56 2019 (print) | DDC 363.6/90941–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018045786 ISBN: 978-​1-​138-​20282-​5  (hbk) ISBN: 978-​1-​315-​47289-​8  (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Newgen Publishing UK

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For Susan Broomhall (multitudo docta sub alis tuis floret)

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Contents

List of figures  List of contributors  Acknowledgements  Introduction: historicising heritage and emotions 

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A L I C I A M A RC HA N T

PART I

Affective histories of blood, stone and land in Medieval and Early Modern Britain 

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1 Carved in stone: engaging with the past in Medieval Orkney 

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SA R A H R A N D LE S

2 Wulfstan of Worcester’s weeping: the architecture of the Norman Conquest as a site of cross-​cultural emotion 

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J A N E -​H É L O Ï S E N AN CA RROW

3 John Hardyng’s Scotland: emotional geographies and forged heritage in the fifteenth century 

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A L I C I A M A RC HA N T

4 Sacred memory: the Elizabethan monuments of Westminster Abbey 

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P E TE R S H E R L OCK

5 Emotional lineages: blood, property, family and affection in Early Modern Scotland  K ATI E B A RC L AY

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6 ‘Let me weep for such a feeling loss’: the emotional significance of Shakespeare’s heritage 

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S U SA N B ROO MH A L L

PART II

Affective histories of blood, stone and land in Australia and the Pacific 

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7 My heritage –​it is not just about sticks and stones –​ it is timeless, precious and irreplaceable 

117

PATSY CA M E RO N

8 The crimson thread of medievalism: haematic heritage and transhistorical mood in colonial Australia 

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L O U I S E D ’ ARCE N S

9 John Watt Beattie and the presentation of convict history  148 JON ADDISON

10 ‘The general softening of manners among us’: music and the moral power of nostalgia in a colonial penal colony  168 A L A N  M A D DOX

11 Murdering Snow and ruling the north: the rise and fall of affective colonialism and the advent of heritage tourism in New Zealand 

183

K R I S TY N  H ARMA N

12 Convict bloodlines: crime, intergenerational legacies and convict heritage 

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H A M I S H M AXWE L L -​S TE WART

13 The Esplanade and the City Gatekeepers: contesting the limits of urban heritage protection 

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J E N N Y G R E GO RY

Bibliography  Index 

234 256

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Figures

0.1 1.1 3.1 3.2 4.1 4.2 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5 7.6 8.1 8.2 9.1 9.2 9.3 9.4 11.1 13.1

The Shot Tower, Taroona, Tasmania The Maeshowe ‘dragon,’ Orkney John Hardyng’s map of Scotland (1457) John Hardyng’s map of Scotland from the second version of the chronicle; first of three pages mapping Carlisle to the Tay View of monuments, St Nicholas Chapel, Westminster Abbey Monument of John, Lord Russell (d.1584), Westminster Abbey Mother Mountain (Mt Pearse) Daughter Mountain (Mt Bischoff) Granite monolith in the Blue Tiers, Turtle Rock Ochred hand stencils, Wargata Mina cave Mannalargenna Cousins Nannette Shaw and Mandy Quadrio gathering ochre on a roadside cutting Tom Durkin, cartoon of Edmund Gerald Fitzgibbon Albert Charles Cooke, engraving, ‘The Mediaeval Court, Intercolonial exhibition’, The Australian News for Home Readers, 20 December 1866 View of the penitentiary and hospital, Port Arthur, Tasmania, c.1880 Studio portrait of John Watt Beattie and family, probably in Hobart, Tasmania, possibly in the 1910s or 1920s. From left: Muriel, Emily (wife), Jean, John Convict relics from Port Arthur, Tasmania, on display in the Port Arthur Museum. Items include leg irons, ball and chain, whip, handcuffs, guns and a sword View of J.W. Beattie’s campsite on his first trip to Lake St Clair, Tasmania, 1879 ‘Auckland, New Zealand’ (1853) by Walter Scarlett Hatton (1873–1938) This image shows a cricket match on the Esplanade, but note that a section is still under water. ‘The Esplanade’ (late 1870s), embroidery by Henry Passmore

9 28 52 60 70 78 123 124 126 128 130 131 137 144 150 151 153 160 189 217

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x Figures 13.2 The city of Perth’s waterfront from the Narrows Bridge and freeway interchange in the west to the Causeway in the east. ‘Perth City ’87: Central Area Survey 1987,’ City of Perth, 1988 13.3 Leunig’s ‘Definitive Awfulising’ cartoon 13.4 Flyer advertising the protest rally, February 2012 13.5 Advertisement publicising the protest rally

221 223 226 227

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Contributors

Jon Addison is History Curator at the Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery, Launceston, Tasmania. He has worked at a number of museums in Australia and the UK, including the Western Australian Maritime Museum, London Transport Museum and the Scottish Maritime Museum. His current role allows him to explore many diverse collections and interests, ranging from archaeology to photography, archives and local and national history. Katie Barclay is Senior Research Fellow in History at the University of Adelaide and a member of the ARC Centre of Excellence for the History of Emotions. She is the author of Love, Intimacy and Power: Marriage and Patriarchy in Scotland, 1650–​1850 (2011) and writes widely on emotions and family life. Susan Broomhall is Professor of History at The University of Western Australia and Director of the Centre for Medieval and Early Modern Studies. She was a Foundation Chief Investigator in the Australian Research Council (ARC) Centre of Excellence for the History of Emotions and now holds an ARC Future Fellowship. Patsy Cameron (AO) is a Tasmanian Aboriginal cultural consultant, artisan, author and educator. She was born in 1947 and grew up on Flinders Island in eastern Bass Strait. Her research interests focus on Tasmanian Aboriginal history and culture and emotional geography. She practises unique cultural traditions including weaving natural fibre baskets and stringing shell necklaces. Louise D’Arcens is Professor in the Department of English at Macquarie University. Her books include Old Songs in the Timeless Land:  Medievalism in Australian Literature 1840–​1910 (2011), Comic Medievalism: Laughing at the Middle Ages (2014) and the edited volumes The Cambridge Companion to Medievalism (2016) and International Medievalism and Popular Culture (2014). Jenny Gregory (AM) is Emeritus Professor of History at The University of Western Australia. She has published widely in the areas of urban history,

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xii  List of contributors town planning and heritage. Current projects include research into lost heritage places, their emotional legacy and their digital representation and the ways in which collecting institutions helped shape and create a sense of place. Kristyn Harman is Senior Lecturer in History at the University of Tasmania specialising in cross-​ cultural encounters across Britain’s nineteenth-​ century colonies, and twentieth-​ century Australasia. Her thematic interests cohere around socio-​cultural frontiers, including:  transportation to, and within, the British Empire’s penal colonies; frontier warfare; Indigenous incarceration; colonial domesticity; and the Australian and New Zealand home fronts during World War Two. Alan Maddox is Senior Lecturer in Musicology at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music, University of Sydney. Initially trained as a singer, his research interests focus on Italian Baroque vocal music, Australian colonial music, music and the history of emotions and music in intellectual history. Alicia Marchant is a historian of emotions and heritage based at the Australian Research Council Centre of Excellence for the History of Emotions, Europe 1100–​1800 at the University of Western Australia. Her previous publications have included work on river histories, the Stone of Scone, cartography, dark tourism and Shakespeare. Hamish Maxwell-​Stewart is Professor of History at the University of Tasmania. He has authored several works on convict transportation, including Closing Hell’s Gates (2008). He is currently working on a series of projects designed to explore the long-​run impacts of penal transportation on health inequalities and offending patterns. Jane-​Héloïse Nancarrow is Honorary Research Fellow at the University of Western Australia, whose research focuses on the legacy of Rome in the high Middle Ages, spolia and memory in cross-​cultural contexts and the application of 3D digital technologies for cultural heritage. Her forthcoming monograph Ruins to Re-​use will be published by Boydell and Brewer in 2019. Sarah Randles is Honorary Research Fellow at the University of Melbourne and Adjunct Researcher at the University of Tasmania. She was formerly a Postdoctoral Research Fellow with the ARC Centre of Excellence for the History of Emotions at the University of Melbourne (2011‒2014), and in 2017 a Project-​to-​Publication Fellow with the same centre. Her current research focuses on the relationship between material culture and emotions, specifically in the religious context of the Cathedral of Notre-​Dame of Chartres in the Middle Ages. With Dr Stephanie Downes

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List of contributors xiii and Dr Sally Holloway, she has co-​edited Feeling Things: Objects and Emotions through History, Oxford University Press,  2018. Peter Sherlock is Vice-​Chancellor of the University of Divinity, Melbourne, Australia. He is author of Monuments and Memory in Early Modern England (Ashgate, 2008). His current research interests include a history of the monuments of Westminster Abbey and the cultural history of memory in Early Modern Europe.

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Acknowledgements

This volume emerged from research that was developed and supported by the Australian Research Council Centre of Excellence for the History of Emotions, Europe 1100–​1800 (Project Number CE110001011). The Centre provided financial support that allowed many of the contributors to meet and discuss the histories of emotions and heritage, and provided me with a research fellowship to develop the volume. My thanks to the administrative staff –​Tanya Tuffrey, Pam Bond, Katrina Tap and Erika von Kaschke –​at the Centre’s headquarters at the University of Western Australia, and to its director, Andrew Lynch, who have created a nurturing scholarly community for the study of the history of emotions. I am also grateful to the School of Humanities at the University of Tasmania, and particularly to the head of humanities, Tony Simoes da Silva. To the wonderful team at Routledge  –​ especially editors Matthew Gibbons and Heidi Lowther –​my sincere thanks for your advice and patience. To the contributors to the volume: thank you for your continual enthusiasm and generosity. Most particular thanks to Jane-​Héloïse Nancarrow and Jon Addison for their editorial suggestions and encouragement and, naturally, to my rocks: Graeme, Angus and Freya Miles. I am deeply grateful to Patsy Cameron for sharing her knowledge and stories of her ancestors, and the heritage of the First Tasmanians. Last, my loudest thanks are directed to Susan Broomhall, who envisioned the original concept, and provided ongoing guidance and support in its development. It is to Sue that this volume is dedicated, with heartfelt thanks and friendship.

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Introduction Historicising heritage and emotions Alicia Marchant1

Rising above my suburb is a circular tower, 48 metres tall, constructed of softly coloured, local golden sandstone. Built in 1870 by Scottish-​born Joseph Moir, the Shot Tower in Taroona, a coastal suburb of Hobart in southern Tasmania, Australia, has long been a symbol of the surrounding community; it is the central image of the lawn bowls club and the volunteer fire brigade, and has been the primary school’s emblem since the 1960s. There is much to admire in the design of this structure, which for four years after it was completed was the tallest building in the southern hemisphere. These days a visit offers insight into the methods used during the 35 years of shot production at the site,2 background to the Scottish Moir family, as well as stunning views from the top; and, of course, an obligatory Devonshire tea. The golden stones make the Shot Tower an attractive symbol of the community over which it soars; however, this tower is in many respects challenging and problematic  –​one would be forgiven for forgetting that this structure was built for the purpose of ammunition production. During its years of operation, toxic and odorous fumes were emitted in a chemical process in which lead is mixed with arsenic and antimony and dropped down the hollow middle from the top of the tower. The resultant shot was of a high quality and its demand extended across Australia and the Pacific for use by hunters and soldiers alike.3 In Tasmania, the Taroona Shot Tower was a crucial weapon in the expansion of agricultural lands and the solidification of empire. Moir’s tower was the main source of shot during the hunt for the Thylacine (Tasmanian Tiger) that left the animal extinct.4 The symbol of my community, then, is a colonial remnant, a visible symbol of an empire’s power and economy, and holds a crucial place within Tasmanian historical narratives. Critically, the power embedded in this stone tower is as much literal as it is symbolic; its complex circular construction required copious amounts of excellent lime mortar to hold the stone in place, and one local, cheap and abundant source was to be found in the Aboriginal middens that line the Taroona coastal dunes. For millennia, Taroona has been an important place for the Mouheneener people as a place of good food, water and settlement; Taroona is well known for its edible shellfish, for oysters and chiton,

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2  Alicia Marchant and indeed ‘Taroona’ comes from the Mouheneener name for seashell. It was with these shells that the Mouheneener people created middens, the placement of shells in layers in the ground, which are an important means of communication of knowledge between generations. Although largely undocumented, the use of midden materials for lime mortar in the construction of Hobart’s early-​colonial buildings was known to have occurred along the Derwent River, with several extant examples.5 This pattern of building practice, combined with the Moirs’ sourcing of building materials –​stone and bricks  –​from their property or its immediate surroundings, make it extremely likely that the shells and middens of Taroona were used in tower’s construction or for its later repairs. Certainly, the Moir family knew of the presence of Aboriginal heritages in the Taroona landscape. Tower-​builder Joseph Moir’s son Joseph Paxton Moir (1849–​1933), an amateur archaeologist, scoured the Taroona coastal plain collecting ‘several hundred’ stone tools, which he catalogued and described, and which today are held in the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford.6 Midden materials are still present in Taroona, although much is hidden from view; some middens are underneath the gardens, orchards, parks and houses that have been built along the Taroona shoreline. Other midden materials have been re-​shaped and re-​positioned, with traces of the snow-​white mortar remaining in patches on the inside of the Shot Tower, although much of the lime mortar was removed during repointing in 1948 to prepare the site for its public opening as a historic site. The Shot Tower, then, is a far more complicated and multifaceted heritage site than its current symbolic uses for my community would suggest. At present, my two young children, like countless children since the 1960s, wear a symbol of the Shot Tower on their school uniform each day, alarmingly paired with the motto ‘Aim High.’ While an obvious encouragement for students to reach for the academic stars, when contextualised within a complex, interconnected series of historical processes  –​among them cultural, heritage-​based and emotional –​that have over time shaped the physical dimensions of the site and its attached value frameworks and historical narratives, this motto can be read as having the very serious meaning of aim for the head and shoot to kill. It would appear that the darker and more challenging narratives about the Shot Tower have weathered and softened somewhat alongside the golden sandstone to make this an acceptable pairing of symbol and motto.

Aims of the collection This collection places a spotlight on the complex processes of remembering and forgetting, of creating, engaging, shaping and repositioning, to consider what heritage does, and how heritage is connected to and between people and places through emotion, both in the past and today. It explores the ways in which emotions invest heritage with affective power, and the

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Introduction 3 transformative effects of this power within individual, community and cultural contexts. We offer focused case studies that identify emotions, and consider how emotions are expressed and displayed, and what emotions enable and transform. Nostalgia for a heritage lost, expressions of grief carved into stone monuments and the ways in which emotions and heritages shape and fracture relationships and forge communities are some examples of affective states discussed herein. The 13 chapters that make up the volume offer cross-​sections of a chronological range that spreads from the early Medieval to the contemporary era, and across two connected geographical regions –​the United Kingdom, and Australia and the Pacific. These contributions were compiled in response to several observations of current heritage scholarship. First, very little is known about the conceptual understandings and practices of heritage in the premodern world, and indeed what the term ‘heritage’ meant, how it was used and what it described in timeframes other than the modern. Second, there has been little consideration of the longer genealogies and the deeper histories of heritage practices, meanings, uses and interpretations; in other words, what David C. Harvey identified as the need to add ‘some temporal depth’7 to the study of heritage by analysing the ways in which past conceptual understandings and practices of heritage have shaped contemporary heritage; in turn, terms such as ‘contemporary’ and ‘historicising’ need further exploration and theorising. Third, and directly related to this, while the ‘affective turn’ has stimulated a great deal of innovative research within the many fields that come under the collective banner of heritage studies, little attention has been paid to the histories of emotions, and the ways in which this theoretical approach –​one that is grounded in historical emotions –​can add to conversations about premodern and modern heritage. These three premises and the questions that they generate provide the key stimulus for the research in this collection. Each chapter seeks to identify, historicise and contextualise the processes of heritage and the emotional regimes at play, to place these processes within longer historical and (often) transnational genealogies and to critically appraise them as part of broader cultural currents. This collection, then, aims to push the more traditional focus on heritage in its modern forms backwards, to consider the ways in which heritage is made and mediated in longer historical timeframes, and timeframes other than the modern, to challenge the ways in which we talk about, discuss, categorise and theorise heritage and emotion.

Terminology What do the terms ‘heritage’ and ‘emotions’ mean, both in the past and today? How can we identify, discuss and analyse past and contemporary processes of heritage and emotions? How can we capture in language the changing conceptual and practical underpinnings of ‘heritage’ and ‘emotions’? These important questions greatly concern the contributors to this volume, who

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4  Alicia Marchant grappled with the language to discuss concepts and practices that have no fixed or static meanings, but rather are culturally determined, ever-​evolving and have at their core individuals and internal memory practices, such as nostalgia, that drive and shape the ways in which heritage is experienced as well as curated and managed. Heritage The question ‘what is heritage?’ has been much pondered over the years. ‘Heritage’ has come to refer to anything from the past and how we talk about, manage and consume that past, leading heritage scholars like Rodney Harrison, not unlike seminal scholar David Lowenthal before him, to state that ‘definitions of heritage have expanded to such an extent that almost anything can be perceived to be “heritage”.’8 In this collection, we draw our understanding of heritage from the work of critical heritage scholars such as Laurajane Smith, who views heritage as a series of interrelated processes; as Smith notes, heritage is ‘not so much a “thing” as a set of values and meanings. “Heritage” is therefore ultimately a cultural practice, involved in the construction and regulation of a range of values and understandings.’9 Likewise, David C. Harvey observes the critical centrality of individuals and collectives, stating: ‘heritage itself is not a thing and does not exist by itself –​ nor does it imply a movement or a project. Rather, heritage is about the process by which people use the past.’10 People, then –​as individuals within various social, communal and cultural settings  –​their accumulations and social practices, are critical to the processes that determine and shape what and how we collect, display, preserve and commemorate heritages. Heritage scholarship is presently dominated by modern and contemporary case-​studies, thanks largely to the pull of industry for advancing tourism, and the critical need for conservation and interpretation strategies to preserve the past. However, while some scholars maintain heritage to be a modern phenomenon, one linked to the postmodern condition, to commodification, consumption and codification, or indeed to the development of Heritage as an academic discipline,11 the lacuna of premodern case-​study examples does not necessary reflect a disciplinary consensus that heritage was not practised nor had conceptual meaning in times other than the modern. Rather, this is, I think, the product of methodological challenges grounded in questions of ‘what is heritage?’ and ‘who practises heritage?,’ all of which have profound implications for the ways in which scholars first identify and then articulate and historicise historical and premodern examples of heritage. This collection aims to contribute to these conversations. The earliest uses and meanings of the term ‘heritage’ in the history of the English language are illuminating for critical discussion. While the Latin hereditagium appears in Roman law concerning the rules of inheritance, ‘heritage’ entered the English language sometime after the Norman Conquest of the eleventh century through the Old French term eritage. The

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Introduction 5 first written usage of the term ‘heritage’ in English comes from the Life of St Katherine, around the year 1224, and is used to discuss the pious early life of the saint. Here, the unknown author states that: this maiden was both fatherless and motherless from her childhood. But, though she was young, she maintained her parents’ household wisely and warily in the heritage and in the household that came to her by birth.12 Here the term ‘heritage’ refers to an entire household –​the servants and the materiality of the house itself –​but also the traditions and customs in which this household was treated, governed and viewed; it encapsulates interwoven senses of purpose, social roles and place, and the value and emotional processes that determine that which is deemed worthy to be bequeathed to future generations for their use or betterment, and indeed govern the manner in which the material inheritance is passed on. Within this context, then, the family –​and indeed, as Davison suggests, ‘ancestral relationships’13 –​played a critical role in early European inheritance practices and the methods and processes through which heritage was made. However, as several contributions in this volume –​among them Katie Barclay (Chapter 5) and Susan Broomhall (Chapter 6) –​discuss, the nature of these relationships and the concept of the family and immediate communities are themselves worthy of attention, as is the reciprocal contribution of the family in heritage-​making within national spheres, and conversely the shaping of family ideals, conceptualisation and public presentation by ideas and notions of nation and national identity. The family, familial inheritance practices and notions of bloodlines are still important categories that have resonance within heritage and in collecting institutions today; certainly, as Patsy Cameron (Chapter 7) describes, ancestry is fundamental for Tasmania’s First People’s heritage. The language around the term ‘heritage’ and its premodern usage is complex; the term ‘heritage’ itself has affective meanings that, when applied, shape the forms and the possibilities of engagement. It is a label that itself has affective power and denotes value. Moreover, it certainly does not follow that prior to its first usage in post-​Conquest Britain, heritage was not practised and had conceptual meaning. In this volume we demonstrate that the preservation of the past, the inheritance of value frameworks and embedded memories (which could be informed by concepts of nation, family or the like), the display and viewing of heritage, senses of heritage landscapes and place and community and nostalgic reminiscing have occurred throughout history. As Harvey declares, ‘heritage has always been with us and has always been produced by people according to their contemporary concerns and experiences.’14 The great challenge, then, presented to the contributors to this volume, is how to situate heritage and emotions within their contemporary cultural currents and settings. In accepting this

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6  Alicia Marchant challenge, we aim to place a spotlight on the temporal layering that exists within the dynamic processes of heritage in the past and the present, and to acknowledge that terms like ‘heritage’ and ‘emotions’ had different, though related, meanings in the past. Emotions and the ‘affective turn’ Studies of emotions and affect (which denotes the embodied, felt and recognised emotion15) are a burgeoning area of research within heritage scholarship, elucidating how human lived experiences, social practices and feelings relate to and shape heritage. At the core of recent scholarship is the notion of the individual as an embodied and affective being, with research considering the ways in which individuals and their communities produce, experience and understand heritages, through memory making, nostalgia and acts of preservation, management and manipulation.16 This scholarship is particularly interested in how emotions are used, evoked and manipulated within heritage settings, in visitor experiences and in motivations for visiting heritage sites and museums.17 Despite the burgeoning body of affect and emotions scholarship, one of the greatest challenges to heritage scholars remains how to articulate the relationship between the individual, their accumulations and social practices as a critical element of heritage production. For some, the use of dramaturgical models as a theoretical framework has proved illuminating. Conceptually underpinning this so-​called ‘performance turn’ is the seminal work of Judith Butler on ‘performativity,’ in which she proposes that individuals have multiple ‘selves’ that are ‘performed’ through culturally normative gestures in various social situations.18 The ‘self’ is thus created through performance. For heritage scholars like Gaynor Bagnall, performance is a crucial aspect of an embodied and affective engagement with heritage, arguing that the act of reminiscing and physical experience is crucial to the production of heritage.19 Bagnall’s ideas resonate powerfully alongside recent work by Michael Haldrup and Jørgen Bærenholdt, who examine the ways in which heritage is generated and produced through performative acts at heritage sites, and with popularised and idealised heritage in media, tourism and elsewhere, as well as analysis of dramatic performances of heritage, such as re-​enactments.20 For contributors to this volume, analysing the history of heritage and longer genealogies of heritage practice and conceptualisation in both the premodern and modern worlds is acutely entwined with questions regarding emotions, and how emotional regimes, human experiences, social practices and feelings relate to and shape the history of heritage, and heritage practices. History of emotions research has recently produced a significant body of literature that theorises the complex articulation of emotions. Emotions (and their associated gestures, expressions, behaviours) have come to be viewed as having ‘a neurological basis,’ but nonetheless as being ‘shaped, repressed, expressed differently from place to place and era to era.’21 In this regard

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Introduction 7 scholars have offered alternative ways of discussing the dynamic history of emotions.22 Sociologist Sara Ahmed and other theorists suggest emotional articulation not as interior states within individual narrators, but rather as social and cultural practices formed in the relationship between bodies, objects and subjects.23 William M. Reddy, recognising the fraught relationship between language, culture and feeling, employs the term ‘emotives’ to refer to the nexus created when the expression of a feeling is not exactly the same as the feeling being described.24 Peter N. Stearns and Carol Zisowitz Stearns apply the concept of ‘emotionology,’ examining the role of social expectations and the ‘norms’ of society in shaping feelings and emotional responses.25 Barbara Rosenwein puts forward the notion of ‘emotional communities,’ analysing how individuals’ emotional lives are shaped by the multiple and sometimes interconnecting communities in which they move.26 More recently, Benno Gammerl talks about ‘emotional styles,’ which encompass ‘the experience, fostering, and display of emotions, and oscillate between discursive patterns and embodied practices as well as between common scripts and specific appropriations.’27 Gammerl argues that this approach provides greater flexibility in discussing the history of emotions, as it explains the diversity of feelings an individual might experience in particular times and places. Of particular currency to this volume is Monique Scheer’s scholarship on emotions-​as-​practice. Scheer, drawing upon Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of habitus, emphasises the bodily and experiential practice of emotions; ‘emotional practices,’ according to Scheer, are not just ‘things people do that are accompanied by emotion’ but ‘things people do in order to have emotions.’28 She continues to say that the ‘practice’ of emotions involves ‘the self (as body and mind), language, material artefacts, the environment, and other people.’29 Scheer’s concept of emotions-​as-​practice highlights not only the sorts of methods through which emotions are produced, but also the emotional processes and practices as themselves critical aspects of human experience. This concept has powerful resonance when considering the history of heritage, providing a theoretical framework to examine the ways in which emotions are performed and produced through engagements, interactions and ritual performances of heritage, and the remembering, reminiscing, recalling and engaging with past traditions, material cultures and practices that these performances acknowledge. The emotional practice of heritage is centred around habitual acts of passing things on, the acts of preserving, collecting and storing, of creating things that last, revising written words to suit new political and power situations.

Historicising heritage and emotions Drawing on, and indeed expanding upon, these conceptual understandings, contributors to this volume explore the ways in which heritage is an accumulation formed in the relationship between the body, material cultures,

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8  Alicia Marchant rituals and emotion, recognising that the nature of this relationship is itself a dynamic process that changes over time, and is socially and culturally constructed. In other words, in the process of heritage formulation, accumulation and articulation, some aspects are forgotten (like the shells in the Shot Tower) and some aspects are remembered, have power and become ‘sticky’ –​laden with value, attachment and emotion, like the beautiful golden stone tower in my children’s school emblem. In returning to the example of the Shot Tower, such a methodology recognises that the emotional relationship that people have felt for the tower at different times in its life is not simple or static, but rather is connected to the tower’s materiality, its value and its uses that change over time. The Shot Tower has generated a range of emotions at various times over the course of its existence (Figure 0.1), from a visitor’s ‘delight’ at viewing the site in 1871, to references to the tower’s ‘romantic history’ and ‘links with another age’ that speaks to the nostalgic and transnational pull of empire.30 However, for travellers along Browns River Road in the 1880s, the main road from Hobart to southern Tasmania, passing the Shot Tower would have undoubtedly incited a range of emotional and physical reactions prompted by the toxic smell.31 And critically, for Tasmania’s First People the tower epitomises the history of persecution, dispossession of lands and bloodshed that so devastated its people. This volume acknowledges the intrinsically temporal nature of heritage and emotions, exploring temporalities that are not linear, but rather incorporate notions of deep pasts, more recent pasts, presents and futures. As Davison suggests, ‘heritage –​what we value in the past –​is defined largely in terms of what we value or repudiate in the present or fear in the future.’32 Patsy Cameron (Chapter  7) demonstrates the lived, tangible and affective connections for Tasmania’s First People between the deep past and the present, discussing the accumulation of ancient heritages and ancient practices that continues today within a landscape that has altered. For many contributors, future temporality is embedded within the practices of heritage creation and preservation; Jane-​Héloïse Nancarrow (Chapter 2) explores the complex forging of a new building style and cultural heritage from old, recycled materials; where future and past emotional regimes were deliberately deployed to express tension between dominant and subversive heritage narratives of the Norman Conquest. Jenny Gregory discusses (Chapter  13) the complex feelings of mourning, solastalgia and powerlessness that were the heart of a protest movement acting to stop the development of a waterfront heritage site in Perth (Australia). When protection laws proved inadequate, this movement looked to the past and to the affective history of the land and river to formulate a strategy for its protection and preservation for future generations. These explorations demonstrate that heritage has an important future temporality, a projection forwards in time, in which future viewers and their engagement are paramount to the contemporary heritage-​making process.

 9

Introduction 9

Figure 0.1 The Shot Tower, Taroona, Tasmania. Photograph c.1900. Used with the kind permission of the Tasmanian Archive and Heritage Office. TAHO NS1013/​1/​324.

Heritage is imbued with and displays a complex temporality and emotionality. A critical aspect of our volume, then, is to historicise –​to apply methods that acknowledge and respond to the different historical contexts that have produced heritage  –​and recognise the multiple contemporary cultural currents that exist within the accumulative processes of heritage. Heritage itself has a history and is a fluid and vividly reimagined concept. Each contribution explores the longer genealogies of heritage practices, meanings, uses and interpretations. We examine, for instance, views of the Medieval past by Early-​Modern Europeans, and of early modernity through modern Australian and British lenses. Peter Sherlock (Chapter  4), for instance, considers how private sixteenth-​century family mourning practices and displays of wealth and prestige shaped Westminster Abbey in London, tracking the history of engagement with monuments by antiquarians and visitors from the Early Modern period to today. Emotions likewise have complex temporalities.33 The practice of nostalgia, for instance, is a contemplative act of temporal recalling in which a past moment is reminisced and deliberated upon, resulting in a range of

10

10  Alicia Marchant feelings, like love or sadness. Nostalgia is generally regarded as an affective rather than mnemonic process and, as Linda Austin explains, is ‘dominated by desire and emotion at the expense of memory.’34 In other words, that which is recalled is shaped by present emotions and desires, and therefore can result in idealised memories or aspirations to a range of effects and affects. Alan Maddox (Chapter  10) analyses the strategies employed by Alexander Maconochie, Superintendent of the Norfolk Island penal settlement, who used music and singing to awaken feelings of nostalgia in convicts. Maconochie aimed to ignite personal transformation and rehabilitation through reconnection with a lost or forgotten heritage. Louise D’Arcens (Chapter 8) discusses the strategies employed by several Australian families in the nineteenth century to fulfil their desire for an ancient British lineage, one that recalls longer, landed, Medieval ancestral connections. This nostalgic impulse for medievalisms is what D’Arcens has coined the ‘transhistorical mood’ –​the multifaceted pull of an era that feels better than the one in which they find themselves. The emotional work involved in the experience and production of heritage, then, is a key concern of this volume. We ask, how are heritages created through individual and communal acts and performances of remembering, recreating, reminiscing, recalling, engaging, revising, even refuting and erasing the past? What do the processes of heritage help recuperate from the past, and to what broader cultural currents do they testify? What this volume contributes to heritage conversations is an approach that views heritage as an accumulation formed in the dynamic, culturally determined relationship between the body, material cultures, rituals and emotion. Each contribution explores how heritage is produced through, and is reflective of, personal, emotional and intimate social relationships within individual, family, community, local and national contexts. In so doing, our volume discusses how individuals, in their social and memory practices, contribute to power relationships, national narratives, to codification practices and to notions of authorised histories and public histories. Critically, then, one effect of placing the individual and their social and memory practices centre stage in the heritage-​making process is the breaking down of divisions between the state-​sanctioned ‘official’ and the ‘unofficial’ heritage practices and acts of individuals and communities,35 as well as between the public and the private, popular culture and scholarly interpretation, allowing for new readings of heritage, its meanings and its practice.36

Historicising heritage and emotion: the affective histories of blood, stone and land This volume marks a significant departure in the field of heritage studies in considering timeframes other than the modern, to consider how emotions like fear, grief, love and desire, for instance, operated in the processes of

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Introduction 11 heritage in the premodern as well as the modern era. In so doing, we hope to challenge heritage researchers to push the study of heritage backwards, and to contribute to continuing debate around the question of ‘what can history do for heritage?’37; examining this further, we ask ‘what can the history of emotions do for heritage?’ Our case studies demonstrate the historical complexity of heritage in diverse but connected geographical spaces and historical timeframes. The geographical scope of the volume –​which is focused on the United Kingdom, Australia and the Pacific  –​was chosen specifically amongst other worldwide possibilities because of these regions’ complex, interwoven histories of cross-​cultural exchange, colonial encounters, negotiations and settlement. Our case studies include examinations of cultural intersections and contested heritages in Australia (Cameron, D’Arcens, Addison, Maxwell-​ Stewart), in the Pacific (Maddox, Harman) and in the United Kingdom (Nancarrow, Randles, Marchant). The volume’s exploration of transnational genealogies of heritage practice is combined with a long historical timeframe that takes examples from the premodern (including Barclay, Sherlock, Broomhall) and modern (including Gregory) to demonstrate and explore continuities and divergences in heritage and emotional practices and their conceptual understandings within our designated geographical area over time. The 13 contributions to this volume offer unique interpretations, methodological frameworks, definitions and examples with which to illustrate the complex, multifaceted intersections of heritage and emotion. We have focused our discussion on the ways in which heritage and emotion is represented in families and bloodlines (blood), in monuments, buildings and memorials (stone) and in landscape and places imbued with memories and emotions (land). Blood, stone and land house, embed and display ideas and practices of heritage and emotions, and so our volume explores how blood, stone and land interrelate with one another, and, in some cases, are understood as heritage through their relationships to each other. Blood The term ‘blood’ evokes notions of ethnicity, ancestry and family, and also of blood spilled in contests between and within families and nations. Blood can embody romantic notions of nationalism and can forge communities, but can also be a motivator for massacre and genocide, and claims of superiority. Central to this collection’s analysis of blood and emotional heritage are considerations of cultural identities and social interactions. Rosenwein’s seminal research on ‘emotional communities’ has particular resonance with articles in this collection that focus on emotional heritage and blood, particularly her discussion of how emotional communities create and contribute to accepted modes of affective articulation.38 How do emotions work to shape and narrate real or perceived forms of collectivity and individuality? Kristyn

12

12  Alicia Marchant Harman (Chapter  11) considers the affective implications of a series of dark and bloody events in New Zealand’s early colonial history: the murder of Robert Snow and the execution of his alleged murderer, Joseph Burns. Harman reflects on the commemoration of the events, its lure as a modern dark tourism site and its connection to national narratives. Bloodlines and ancestry were critical to past notions of heritage and inheritance practices, and have continuing importance and relevance today. Katie Barclay (Chapter  5) discusses the ways in which families defined themselves through complex intersections of blood, property and affection. Barclay considers private family practices and outward public display, such as naming practices in Early Modern Scotland. Susan Broomhall (Chapter 6), who notes Early Modern heritage to be ‘strongly connected to notions of inheritance,’ explores connections between Shakespeare’s notions of family and inheritance and its interpretation in modern historic sites and historiography. In Hamish Maxwell-​Stewart’s (Chapter  12) examination of Tasmanian convict bloodlines he discusses the heritage of blood in genetic terms and its attached value and social framework. Maxwell-​Stewart challenges the long-​ held and loaded assumption (that had far-​ ranging heritage and historiographical impacts) that convict blood was ‘stained’ and a social and health disadvantage that was inherited for generations. The reality, that convicts and their families were in fact taller and better nourished than their contemporaries, belies this myth of the ‘convict stain.’ Jon Addison (Chapter  9) too explores the issue of blood and inheritance of the ‘convict stain,’ coming at his discussion through museum and public history frameworks. Focusing on the work of Tasmanian collector and photographer John Watt Beattie (1859–​1930), Addison considers how past and present practices of collecting, managing and negotiating emotional heritage outcomes in museum collections contributed to the popularised image of a gothic Tasmania, which even today has coloured the ways in which people relate to ideas of convictism. Stone Stone is a material often imbued with emotion; it can be used for commemoration, to structure people’s lives and to imprison. It can be moulded and weathered, suggesting simultaneously permanence and the destructive passage of time. As a material able to receive apparently living form and yet quintessentially heavy and inanimate, the paradoxes of its nature, its uses and abuses, make it an important medium for the deliberate (and sometimes for the accidental) production of emotional response. Jane Bennett discusses the agency of objects to produce specific affective states, describing ‘the curious ability of inanimate things to animate, to act, to produce effects dramatic and subtle.’39 Here then, stone’s materiality and its uses are important; objects are to be viewed not simply as representations of social relations, but also as creators of these relations. Objects do things. Within

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Introduction 13 our volume, stone is the subject of discussion by Nancarrow, Marchant, Sherlock, Cameron and Harman. Sarah Randles (Chapter 1) considers the affective heritage of stone on the island Orkney, in far-​north Scotland, to discuss the ways in which stone was incorporated, reworked, reused and re-​conceptualised by early and later Medieval people of Orkney. Moreover, Randles considers the genealogies of the stone and its emotional loading, and its current interpretation and modes of preservation in modern tourist contexts in Orkney. Land Land is in some respects an anchor to the other two categories of heritage, providing place and space to stone and blood, but is an important category in itself. Land can be both alienating and strange, and the focus of emotional attachment and senses of belonging. Scholarship on the history of emotion is increasingly interested in the role of space and place. Benno Gammerl, for instance, examines the relationship between emotional styles and spaces, arguing that emotional styles are shaped by the kind of spaces in which they are enacted.40 The growing field of emotional geographies too has placed greater emphasis on the role of spatial context. Mick Smith and others have argued that ‘emotions are vital (living) aspects of who we are and of our situational engagement within the world; they compose, decompose, and recompose the geographies of our lives.’41 In this regard, our collection  –​ particularly in the contributions by Randles, Nancarrow, Sherlock, Cameron and Gregory –​explores the complex relationship between emotion, place, space, landscape and heritage, and how identity and belonging are embedded in senses of place. In Chapter 3, I examine a fifteenth-​century cartographic image commissioned by chronicler John Hardyng as a means of locating and orienting an emotional heritage landscape. It is a map that embeds and reflects a personal and a collective geographical imagining of Scotland from the perspective of England and for the purposes of future invasion.

Conclusions The Taroona Shot Tower is a worthy example of a multifaceted and complicated heritage imbued with memories and emotions, and is an example that illustrates the interrelation of the three key themes of the collection: the spilling of blood, the collection and display of stones and the dispossession of land, amongst other varied readings and interpretations. It also reflects the transnational focus of the volume, and is an example of cultural and heritage habits and value frameworks that have transferred across connected geographical and cultural spaces; here, a Scottish family brought with them industry, practices and traditions that came to have a significant impact on the landscape and people of Tasmania. Likewise, the modern framework of value that has been attached to the tower –​that has seen it

14

14  Alicia Marchant preserved and protected as heritage over other heritages –​has resulted in an afterlife in which the tower has taken on new meanings in its symbolic uses, and in its histories of display, representation and interpretation. Each of the contributions that make up this volume apply methodologies that place a spotlight on the complex processes of heritage accumulation, on value frameworks and longer historical and transnational genealogies of heritage practices and emotional practices, allowing for new readings and interpretations of heritage in the past and today.

Notes 1 I wish to acknowledge the support of the ARC Centre for the History of Emotions (Grant Number CE110001011) in the writing and development of this research. My thanks to Jane-​Héloïse Nancarrow for her comments on an earlier draft. 2 Richard Lord, ‘The Shot Tower’, Taroona 1808–​1986: Farm Lands to a Garden Suburb (Hobart: Taroona Historical Group, 1988), 65. 3 Shot ‘manufactured at Mr. Moir’s Shot Tower’ was listed in the colonial exports as shipped to Sydney and Melbourne. The Mercury, Wednesday 3 May 1871, 2. 4 A total of 2207 bounties were claimed on Thylacine bodies between 1888 and 1909. Some Thylacines were shot and some were caught using either snares or drop-​pits. Robert Paddle, The Last Tasmanian Tiger: The History and Extinction of the Thylacine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 167. 5 My thanks to Jon Addison, who first alerted me to the midden use, and to Greg Lehman for his advice on extant examples of midden materials in colonial structures in Salamanca Place and Shag Bay. 6 Rebe Taylor, Into the Heart of Tasmania:  A Search for Human Antiquity (Carlton: Melbourne University Publishing, 2017), 58–​68; Dan Hicks, ‘Australia and Oceania’, World Archaeology at the Pitt Rivers Museum: A Characterization, ed. Dan Hicks and Alice Stevenson (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2013), 525–​53. 7 David C. Harvey, ‘The History of Heritage’, The Ashgate Research Companion to Heritage and Identity, ed. Brian Graham and Peter Howard (Farnham: Ashgate, 2008), 22. 8 Rodney Harrison, Heritage:  Critical Approaches (Milton Park, Abingdon: Routledge, 2013), 3; David Lowenthal, Possessed by the Past:  The Heritage Crusade and the Spoils of History (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1998), 94. 9 Laurajane Smith, Uses of Heritage (London: Routledge, 2006), 11. 10 Harvey, ‘The History of Heritage’, 1. 11 As discussed by David C. Harvey, the emergence of heritage is often placed in the late twentieth century, and is commonly linked with the Ancient Monuments Act of 1882; see ‘Heritage Pasts and Heritage Presents: Temporality, Meaning and the Scope of Heritage Studies’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 7:4 (2001): 321 ff. See also J. John Lennon and Malcolm Foley, Dark Tourism: The Attraction of Death and Disaster (London: Continuum, 2000). 12 Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. Heritage 1a; James Morton, The Legend of St. Katherine of Alexandria, Edited from a Manuscript in the Cottonian Library (London: Bentley, 1841), 5. 13 Davison, ‘Heritage: From Patrimony to Pastiche’, 31.

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Introduction 15 4 Harvey, ‘Heritage Pasts and Heritage Presents’, 320. 1 15 Stephanie Trigg, ‘Affect Theory’, Early Modern Emotions: An Introduction, ed. Susan Broomhall (London: Routledge, 2017), 11. 16 See, for instance, Joy Sather-​Wagstaff, ‘Making Polysense of the World: Affect, Memory, Heritage’, Heritage, Affect and Emotion:  Politics, Practices and Infrastructures, ed. Divya P.  Tolia-​ Kelly, Emma Waterton and Steve Watson (London: Routledge, 2016), 12–​29. 17 There is quite a body of work on this subject. See, for instance, Yaniv Poria, Arie Reichel and Avital Biran, ‘Heritage Site Perceptions and Motivations to Visit’, Journal of Travel Research 44:3 (2006): 318–​26; Avital Biran, Yaniv Poria and Gila Oren, ‘Sought Experiences at (Dark) Heritage Sites’, Annals of Tourism Research 38:3 (2011): 820–​41. 18 Judith Butler, Gender Trouble:  Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (London: Routledge, 1999). 19 Gaynor Bagnall, ‘Performance and Performativity at Heritage Sites’, Museum and Society 1:2 (2003): 87–​103. 20 Michael Haldrup and Jørgen Ole Bærenholdt, ‘Heritage as Performance’, The Palgrave Handbook of Contemporary Heritage Research, ed. Emma Waterton and Steve Watson (Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 52–​68. 21 Susan J. Matt, ‘Current Emotion Research in History: Or, Doing History from the Inside Out’, Emotion Review 3:1 (2011): 118. 22 For general overview discussions of the history of emotions, see Matt, ‘Current Emotion Research’, 117–​24; Anna Wierzbicka, ‘The “History of Emotions” and the Future of Emotion Research’, Emotion Review 2:3 (2010): 269–​73. 23 Sara Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion (New  York:  Routledge, 2004), esp. 1–​19. 24 William M.  Reddy, ‘Against Constructionism:  The Historical Ethnography of Emotions’, Current Anthropology 38:3 (1997): 327–​40. 25 C. Stearns and P.  Stearns, ‘Emotionology:  Clarifying the History of Emotions and Emotional Standards’, The American Historical Review 90 (1985): 813–​36. 26 Barbara H.  Rosenwein, Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2006). 27 B. Gammerl, ‘Emotional Styles: Concepts and Challenges’, Rethinking History 16 (2012): 163. 28 My emphasis. M. 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 (2012): 194. 29 Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice’, 193. 30 ‘We look our departure highly delighted with our visit’, ‘Visit to Moir’s Tasmanian Shot Tower, The Mercury, 16 March 1971, 2; ‘The Shot Tower, Its Romantic History, the Moir Family, Links with Another Age’, The Mercury, 9 January 1935, 3. 31 Tower builder Joseph Moir’s granddaughter, Marjorie Massey, who grew up at the Shot Tower, ‘explains that the tower was built a distance out of Hobart because of the poisonous fumes given forth by the shot-​making.’ The Mercury, 9 January 1935, 3. 32 Davison, ‘Heritage: From Patrimony to Pastiche’, 33. 33 Christine Mattley, ‘The Temporality of Emotion: Constructing Past Emotions’, Symbolic Interaction 25:3 (2002): 363.

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16  Alicia Marchant 34 Linda Austin, ‘The Nostalgic Moment and the Sense of History’, Postmedieval: A Journal of Medieval Cultural Studies 2 (2011): 127–​40, at 127. 35 Harrison, Heritage: Critical Approaches, 15. 36 As Tolia-​Kelly, Waterton and Watson recently commented, such an approach ‘moves the debate beyond an authorized heritage/​alternative heritage binary; affective memory when forged at heritage sites, shatters singular readings and narratives.’ ‘Introduction; Heritage, Affect and Emotion’, Heritage, Affect and Emotion, 3. 37 Jessica Moody, ‘Heritage and History’, The Palgrave Handbook of Contemporary Heritage Research, ed. Emma Waterton and Steve Watson (Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 123; Graeme Davidson, ‘Heritage:  From Patrimony to Pastiche’, The Heritage Reader, ed. Graham Fairclough, Rodney Harrison, John H. Jameson Jnr and John Schofield (London: Routledge, 2008), 30–​41. 38 Rosenwein, Emotional Communities. 39 Jane Bennett, Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010), 6. 40 Benno Gammerl, ‘Emotional Styles:  Concepts and Challenges’, Researching Emotions, Rethinking History: The Journal of Theory and Practice 16:2 (2012): 161–​75. 41 Mick Smith, Joyce Davidson, Laura Cameron and Liz Bondi, ‘Introduction: Geography and Emotion  –​Emerging Constellations’, Emotion, Place and Culture, ed. Mick Smith, Joyce Davidson, Laura Cameron and Liz Bondi (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), 1–​18.

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Part I

Affective histories of blood, stone and land in Medieval and Early Modern Britain

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1  Carved in stone Engaging with the past in Medieval Orkney Sarah Randles1

Orkney, an archipelago of some 70 islands off the northeast tip of Scotland, is now thought of by most Britons, including some Orcadians themselves, as remote and isolated. However, it has had several heydays in which it was an extremely important site, due to its highly fertile land, significantly warmer climate compared to the adjacent mainland of Scotland and its location on major sea routes between Britain and Scandinavia. Successive waves of migration and cultural changes are recorded in a wealth of stone monuments, from the Neolithic period to the present, which define the landscape and provide a highly visible, layered history. The most famous and frequently visited locations on Orkney are those comprising the UNESCO World Heritage site known as the Heart of Neolithic Orkney. This site was listed by UNESCO in 1999 as a centre of ‘exceptional universal value.’ It includes a number of monuments within a mile from one another, clustering around a narrow strip of land between the saltwater Loch of Stenness and the freshwater Loch of Harray, framed by surrounding hills. It also includes two stone circles and their surrounding henges, the Standing Stones of Stenness (c.3100 BC), which form the oldest stone circle in Britain at 5000 years old, and the more recent Ring of Brodgar about a mile away (c.2500–​2000 BC). Nearby is the Barnhouse village (abandoned c.2600 BC) and between them is the new and ongoing excavation of the Ness of Brodgar (c.3500 BC), which has been interpreted as a temple complex. Within line of sight of the stone circles is the huge burial mound of Maeshowe (c.2800 BC), containing a stone-​chambered tomb. The Heart of Neolithic Orkney also includes the village of Skara Brae (occupied from 3180 BC to c.2500 BC) at the Bay of Skail on the western coast of Mainland, the largest island in the archipelago. The Orkney landscape also encompasses many other stone monuments beyond the UNESCO site. The Neolithic Knap of Howar (c.3700 BC), on the island of Westray, is believed to be Europe’s oldest stone dwelling. Round houses and brochs, such as the well-​preserved Broch of Gurness (c.500–​200 BC), and enigmatic carved symbol stones from the sixth to ninth centuries AD stand testament to the Pictish occupation of Orkney. Norse hogback graves at the Brough of Birsay (tenth to twelfth centuries),

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20  Sarah Randles the twelfth-​century bishop’s palace at Birsay, St Magnus Kirk on Egilsay, and St Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall, founded in 1137, represent the Christian heritage of Orkney. The nineteenth-​century Martello towers at Hackness and Crockness, and the ancient sheep pounds and more modern dyke on North Ronaldsay are amongst the most important secular buildings. There are also many other less-​lauded stone monuments, including hundreds of churches, stone houses and walls, as well as the ubiquitous ‘lumps and bumps’ in the landscape which may conceal yet-​unexcavated historical and pre-​historical monuments. Stone dominates the landscape and commemorates the past in Orkney in a ubiquitous and unavoidable way. With the land, sea and sky, it forms an elemental part of the islands’ heritage, both in the sense of that which is treasured and more broadly that which is inherited, in accordance with David C.  Harvey’s statement that ‘heritage is about the process by which people use the past.’2 In the case of Orkney’s stone monuments, the choice of stone as a building material has resulted, in part, from the lack of available alternatives. The number of trees on Orkney declined sharply in the early Neolithic period as a result of climate change and subsequent human activity, meaning that stone was used for purposes which might otherwise have been achieved using wood.3 The survival of not only the houses but the furniture at the Knap of Howar and Skara Brae attests to both its utility and ubiquity. The materiality of the stone itself is integral to its prevalence and survival. The stone used in Orcadian monuments is, for the most part, found locally, allowing it to display a close relationship between the built environment and the land. While not immune to change over time, stone was the most durable of the materials available to builders and artists, making it a suitable substance with which to make artefacts of social and cultural significance which were intended to last, but at the same time was soft enough that it might be shaped and inscribed. The Neolithic and many later buildings are constructed of Orkney flagstone, a hard granite formed in strata, which is exposed at the sea line and easily worked, separating into long, narrow building blocks, as are evident in the tall, narrow standing stones at Brodgar and Stenness, which have endured millennia of exposure to Orkney’s relentless winds. It also lends itself to being used like bricks in smaller pieces to build walls, including in the massive, terraced blocks which form the walls of Maeshowe. Later, in the Christian period, builders favoured the softer Old Orkney red sandstone, prized for its colour and its ability to be worked and carved, used to great effect in Kirkwall’s St Magnus’ Cathedral, but far more susceptible to erosion. The sense of a visible, tangible past, together with Orkney’s tranquil agrarian landscape and abundant wildlife, led the Orkney Islands Council to promote the islands to tourists in 2004 with the slogan ‘Find time in Orkney.’4 In 2009, more than 140,000 visitors, around seven times the number of the resident population, came to do just that.5 The stone heritage of Orkney, reflecting the constructions of successive cultures, is both its

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Engaging with the past in Medieval Orkney 21 emotional ‘heart’ and an essential part of its economic lifeblood. The extraordinarily well-​preserved archaeological record allows us not only to see the relics of the past for ourselves, but also to glimpse the way that subsequent groups of Orcadian inhabitants viewed the past of their own landscape, including traces of their emotional reactions to their built environments. The unavoidable presence of a past literally set in stone meant that as new settlers arrived or new cultures were embraced, the people of Orkney were obliged to confront and make sense of this stone heritage in emotional as well as practical ways. As Benno Gammerl has noted, emotional styles are shaped by the physical environments in which they take place,6 but they are also subject to the prevailing beliefs and practices of the emotional communities which encounter these spaces. This chapter is concerned specifically with the Norse inhabitants of Orkney in the Middle Ages and their responses to the earlier Pictish and Neolithic monuments that they encountered, as well as the material legacy of those responses. This investigation into the longer and multi-​layered aspect of the historical built environment of Orkney responds to David C. Harvey’s call to add ‘temporal depth’ to the study of heritage.7 The earliest traces of human settlement in Orkney date from the Mesolithic period (c.9000–​4000 BC), and are mostly limited to the stone tools used by hunter-​gatherers. The Neolithic period (c.4000–​1800 BC) saw the gradual evolution of Orcadian society into a primarily agricultural one, and the expansion of the population by means of migration from mainland Scotland. The Neolithic people of Orkney erected chambered burial cairns, ceremonial buildings and standing stones, many of which have remained to become a celebrated part of Orkney’s built environment. While the Bronze Age (c.1800–​800 BC) did not have a significant impact on Orkney’s material culture, the Iron Age (c.600–​100 BC) saw the building of stone roundhouses, which evolved into fortified brochs. During the first half of the first millennium AD, Orkney was inhabited by a group of people known as Picts, and for a time Orkney was part of the Pictish kingdom of Scotland, though it is not clear whether the Picts of Orkney were predominantly descendants of the Neolithic inhabitants or of immigrants. By the eighth century, Christianity had been established in Orkney, attested in the stone record by a carved eagle, the symbol of St John the Evangelist, at the Knowe of Burrian.8

The Norse settlement of Orkney By the end of the eighth century, however, pagans from Norway had begun to settle in Orkney. The nature of their encounters with the Pictish people who had preceded them remains, in the absence of documentary sources, a matter of controversy, but it is indisputable from the archaeological evidence that the Norse came into contact with Pictish stone buildings and continued to use these sites.9 At the Broch of Gurness, in the ninth century, a pagan Norse woman was buried on the site of the disused broch, while several Norse pagan-​era graves have been found near an Iron-​Age settlement

22

22  Sarah Randles at Pierowalls on the northern island of Westray, suggesting that the sites had acquired or retained some pragmatic or religious significance for the colonisers. At the Brough of Birsay, a tidal island which housed a Pictish settlement, Norse hogback graves are placed near the site of a Pictish slab marker, and a rectilinear twelfth-​century Norse church was built over, and at an oblique angle to, the rounded, still-​visible remains of Pictish dwellings, in what seems like a deliberate assertion of colonisation. It is clear that Norse culture entirely dominated the islands from the ninth century onwards, and its presence is attested in stone. Although they had arrived as pagans, by the end of the tenth century Norse Orcadians had converted to Christianity. According to Orkneyinga Saga, written around 1230 by an Icelander, which provides almost all of the documentary evidence for the history of Orkney before the late Middle Ages, this was a sudden, forced conversion. Olaf Tryggvason (later king of Norway and Saint Olaf, or St Ola, as he is known in Orkney) converted Sigurd, Earl of Orkney, in 995, by the simple measure of turning up with a flotilla and threatening to kill him and ravage the islands with fire and steel if he did not consent to be baptised. Sigurd agreed, and the whole of Orkney turned to Christianity, though it is doubtful as to whether the process was as instantaneous or abrupt as the saga suggests, particularly since Christianity had already been established in the islands before the arrival of the Norse. By the early twelfth century, in any case, Orkney was a Christian community, and had its own patron saint, St Magnus Erlendsson, also an earl of Orkney, who was martyred on the island of Egilsay. He was commemorated in stone, both in a twelfth-​century round-​towered church on the site of the martyrdom, and in the distinctive red Orkney sandstone cathedral founded in Kirkwall in 1137 by his nephew Earl (later also Saint) Rognvald. Many other stone churches also survive from this period. Until 1468 Orkney remained under Norwegian rule and was, at different times, administered by the bishoprics of Hamburg-​Bremen, York, Lund and Nidaros (Trondheim).10 It is in the contexts of this relatively recent settlement and conversion to Christianity that the evidence of Norse interaction with the prehistoric monuments of Orkney must be considered.

Inscriptions Much of the evidence for the Norse response to the Neolithic heritage of Orkney comes from surviving inscriptions in stone. The runic system of writing used by the Norse was designed for carving into stone and other media, and featured long, straight lines, which could be easily inscribed using an axe or knife. Some 50 runic inscriptions are known from Orkney, and the durability of the Orkney flagstone that has enabled the survival of the Neolithic monuments has also enabled the preservation of runic inscriptions from the Norse era, giving us a strong indication of the Norse reaction to this tangible stone heritage. More than half of the 60-​or-​so runic inscriptions

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Engaging with the past in Medieval Orkney 23 known in Britain are from different contexts in Orkney, providing the largest concentration of such inscriptions outside Scandinavia. The large majority of the Orcadian inscriptions occur on the Neolithic monuments, including one at the Ring of Brodgar and more than 30 at Maeshowe. At the Ring of Brodgar, a stone circle originally comprising some 60 standing stones, of which 27 now remain, the runic inscription appears on a distinctive stone which has been broken horizontally so that the remainder protrudes only about 50 centimetres from the ground. It is not possible to ascertain whether the runes were carved before or after the stone was broken, but it is plausible that it was marked this way because it was a stone which already stood out. The inscription has been identified as depicting the personal name ‘Bjorn’ using one character from the standard Futhark rune row11 and the remainder from a cryptic form of runic writing known as ‘twig runes,’ which form a code to be deciphered.12 There is also the clear presence of a cross, carved beneath the runes, executed in a similar manner to the cuts. The carver of the runes wished not only to identify himself, or another person, but also to mark this Neolithic era monument with the sign of Christianity. It is possible that the Bjorn stone was intended as an adaptation of the Norse tradition of the runestone, usually a large, purposely erected stone with a runic inscription, often as a memorial.13 About a kilometre away from the Ring of Brodgar, the Neolithic chambered tomb of Maeshowe preserves the largest collection of Norse-​era inscriptions on Orkney. The Neolithic structure was entirely covered over by a mound until 1861, when an antiquarian excavation led by James Farrer entered from the top, but it was originally designed to be entered via a ten-​ metre-​long low passage way, through a doorway blocked by a large stone, carefully balanced on a pivot. Maeshowe was designed so that on the midwinter solstice the setting sun would travel in a straight line down the long passage way to precisely illuminate the chamber at the back of the tomb.14 Its purpose for the Neolithic peoples who built and used it was almost certainly sacred, as were the other monuments in the Heart of Neolithic Orkney. The Norse broke into Maeshowe on at least two, but probably several, different occasions in the twelfth century, and left some 33 textual inscriptions as well as several crosses and more detailed images carved into the interior walls.15 The inscriptions are all executed in runes, some of them using standard Futhark runes, including some additional Orcadian characters, others with cryptic variations including twig runes and more idiosyncratic versions.16 Michael Barnes has dated these inscriptions, on the basis of both rune forms and language, to the middle of the twelfth century.17 The Maeshowe runes and other carvings have been used extensively in recent times to evoke Orkney’s Norse heritage and to project a visual identity for the islands, featuring in jewellery, knitwear and tourist souvenirs, and on public signs, including the one on Grimbister Airport.18 The Maeshowe runes have been widely described as ‘Viking graffiti’ in a pejorative sense.19 Judith Jesch describes the rune carvers as ‘vandals’ and

24

24  Sarah Randles some of the inscriptions as ‘no better than those found in the average toilet,’ while acknowledging that other inscriptions are more sophisticated.20 About half of the inscriptions are indeed variations along the lines of ‘Ottar carved these runes,’ or, as Barnes puts it, ‘Kilroy was here.’21 Other inscriptions include the assertion that ‘Ingigerthr is the most beautiful of women,’22 and the pithy statement that ‘Thorny fucked. Helgi carved.’23 It might be tempting to read these inscriptions as simply a claiming of identity and a marking of place, thereby desecrating a sacred space whose building and purpose was so remote from the Norse era as to be meaningless. But these inscriptions are nevertheless important, particularly because the runic carvings at Maeshowe and elsewhere on Orkney comprise almost the entire corpus of Orcadian writing from the Middle Ages, providing us with the names of many Orcadians not elsewhere recorded. While some inscriptions are more carefully executed than others, even the most prosaic runes required time and effort and a significant degree of literacy, the last a skill that was by no means universal. Some of the inscriptions are indeed more erudite and discursive, however, and reveal more about their authors and their relationship with the monument. The longest inscription tells us, amongst other things, that ‘This mound was built before Lothbrok’s,’24 referring to the legendary Norse hero Ragnar Lothbrok.25 In invoking Lothbrok, the writer of this inscription recognises Maeshowe both as an object of great age and as a burial mound, or barrow, placing it firmly within the Norse cultural understanding of such mounds. Maeshowe certainly resembles such barrows, known to the Scandinavians from more recent history. N.K. Chadwick describes them as ‘containing a stone-​built burial chamber roofed with wood, and covered with a great mound of earth.’26 Maeshowe was roofed in stone, but otherwise would have been a very familiar structure to the Norse men who entered it. Elsewhere in Scandinavia, Christian Norse were accustomed to encountering and living with a sacral landscape which included pre-​Christian monuments, particularly howes and barrows, whose use was still remembered.27 Alexandra Walsham also points to the way that Bronze-​Age barrows and tumuli could experience an ‘afterlife,’ in which ‘the fading memory of their first creators provided the stimulus for forging fresh traditions about their past history and for the reappropriation of these burial mounds to serve different ideological and practical objectives.’28

The Norse interpretation of Maeshowe The runic inscriptions are also placed in the context of a Norse cultural heritage by another inscription:  ‘That man who is most rune-​skilled west of the sea carved these runes with that axe which Gaukr Trandill’s son owned in the south of the country.’29 The country in question is Iceland, and while Barnes thinks it is unlikely that the axe was actually used to carve the runes,30 the inscription serves to link Maeshowe with the wider Norse

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Engaging with the past in Medieval Orkney 25 world. Understanding this context allows us to make sense of the Norse experience of Maeshowe and the tangible past of Orkney. Similarly, several of the runic inscriptions mention treasure: ‘It was long ago that great wealth was concealed here’;31 ‘Fortunate is he who can find the great riches’;32 ‘Hakon alone carried treasure out of this mound.’33 Another inscription reads: ‘That which I say will be true, that wealth was brought away. Wealth was brought away three nights before they broke this mound.’34 The rune carvers understood Maeshowe, therefore, as a pagan burial mound, which, according to their own tradition, should have contained precious grave goods, appropriate to someone of such high status as would warrant a tomb of this size. The repeated references to treasure have led some scholars to suspect that the pagan Vikings might have re-​used the mound to bury their own high-​status dead, since it is unlikely that there would have been anything that the Norse would have recognised as treasure remaining in the tomb.35 It is as likely, however, that the inscriptions refer to a cultural expectation relating to the Norse carvers’ own pre-​Christian past. Another inscription, which refers to ‘a Viking who came underneath to this place,’36 presents an attempt at an explanation for the lack of treasure, the mound having been already plundered by grave robbers. Orkneyinga Saga also supports this theory that the Norse understood Maeshowe in terms of their own cultural past. It tells how, during a period of protracted fighting over the earlship of Orkney, Earl Harald Maddadarson made war on Earl Erlend Haraldsson. While marching his troops across Mainland from Hamna Voe (now Stromness) in the south to Firth in the north, on the thirteenth day of Christmas 1153, he was caught in a snowstorm. The saga states that ‘they took shelter in Orkahaugr,37 and there two of them went insane which slowed them down badly …’38 Orkneyinga Saga’s laconic statement doesn’t see fit to provide an explanation for this insanity, but Sigurd Towrie suggests that ‘it is possible that the darkness of the tomb, the extreme weather conditions and the numerous tales of Orkney’s mounds, and their supernatural dwellers, might have been enough to tip an already superstitious mind over the brink.’39 Such tales were likely to have included the supernatural beings known in Old Norse as haugar (singular haugr) or haugbúar (singular haugbúi), which were believed in Scandinavian tradition to inhabit burial mounds. They were not ghosts, but rather revenants, being distinctly corporeal, animated corpses of the dead who had been buried in the mounds. They were, according to Chadwick, ‘greatly to be feared.’40 Chadwick cites the story of King Svegthir, which may well have been known to the Orcadians in the twelfth century, in which the king enters a stone barrow, only to have the door shut behind him, and is never seen again.41 The long entry passage to Maeshowe, closed by its pivoting, massive stone, could very well have inspired terror in anyone familiar with such legends. It is important to note that tales of mound-​dwellers survived long into the Christian era, as the ‘hogboy’ or ‘hugboy’ (clearly derivations of haugbúi) associated with Maeshowe in later folk tales attests. James Farrer, who

26

26  Sarah Randles excavated Maeshowe in 1861, recorded that local tradition believed the mound had previously been inhabited by the ‘Hogboy,’ an unpleasant creature possessing great strength.42 If Maeshowe was understood as a Norse burial mound, whether because it was re-​used as one or because it occupied that cultural niche, such an inhabitant would be only too likely, and fear to the point of insanity an appropriate response. The intangible heritage of the Norse sojourners in the mound therefore shaped their response to the tangible heritage of the Neolithic monument. Some of the runic inscriptions in Maeshowe are explicitly Christian in context. Two of them refer to ‘Jerusalem men’ or ‘Jerusalem-​travellers’: ‘Jerusalem men broke this mound,’43 and ‘Jerusalem-​travellers broke Orkhaugr.’44 The terms may mean either pilgrims or crusaders; it is doubtful that these two functions were conceived of differently. The Jerusalem men probably refer to those who accompanied Earl Rognvald Kali Kolsson, whom Jesch describes as a ‘poet and athlete, ruler and politician, patron of the arts and intellectual,’45 who spent the winter of 1150–​1151 on Orkney before going on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and who was therefore away at the time that Earl Harald and his men sheltered in the mound. The carvings might have been made before or after the pilgrimage, but the date is certainly congruent with Barnes’ assessment. The identification of the mound-​breakers as crusaders or pilgrims implies that their status as Christians was something they saw as particularly important in this context. Several crosses also appear amongst the runic inscriptions, including one accompanied by an inscription stating that ‘Benedikt made this cross.’46 The crosses might have been carved by the returning Jerusalem-​travellers, since this was an established way for pilgrims or crusaders to make their mark.47 But the crosses may also have provided an apotropaic or protective function against the pre-​Christian power of the burial mound and whatever might have dwelt within it. Alexandra Walsham provides compelling evidence from the earliest days of Christianity in Britain that Christians felt a need to counter or denature the power of pagan sites, carving crosses on them or sometimes building churches on top of henges or pagan burial sites, in accordance with Gregory the Great’s instructions to Mellitus in 601 that heathen shrines were not to be razed, but rather purified.48 The depiction of crosses on Medieval churches was also an important element in the ritual of consecration, sacralising the space for God. Read in this context, the cross carved by Bjorn on the standing stone in the Ring of Brodgar may also have been intended to have such a function. It also stands as a parallel to the cross carved into a standing stone on Bodmin Moor by St Samson in the fifth or sixth century.49

The Maeshowe ‘dragon’ In addition to the inscriptions and the crosses, there are also four images carved into the stone within Maeshowe. This collection includes the head of an animal with a protruding tongue, another indistinct creature that

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Engaging with the past in Medieval Orkney 27 may represent a walrus and a serpent coiled in a knot. Each of these three carvings is rather amateur in its execution. The fourth image, however, while indistinct, is of a different calibre, showing a high level of artistry, and a familiarity with Romanesque artistic form. From its first modern discovery, in Farrer’s excavation, this image has captured both the scholarly and general Orcadian imagination, despite the difficulties of interpretation. Farrer described it as a winged dragon,50 an appellation which has stuck, perhaps partly as a marketing ploy for the wide range of objects and representations it has inspired.51 More recently, it has been described as a lion, and it certainly appears to be a quadruped with a mane (see Figure 1.1). The head of the animal is clearer than its back and hind quarters. While not all of the detail can be ascertained with certainty, some aspects are clear. The animal raises its offside foreleg, while its hind legs remain on the ground. It turns its head behind over its back and its elongated neck is covered with what appear to be overlapping scales, perhaps giving rise to the original identification as a dragon, though they are as likely to depict the locks of a lion’s mane, and the rest of the body is not covered in this way. The animal is characteristically Norse, with its pointed snout and teardrop-​ shaped eye resembling those on a range of carved animals found in churches in Denmark and Norway.52 Most problematic for the interpretation of this creature is the design element that appears above its back, which is far from clear. A flourish above the body presumably led to Farrer’s description of wings. A more prosaic interpretation is that it is a decoratively knotted tail, which appears to pierce the animal’s body, a decorative feature that is found both in Scandinavian and Lombardic imagery. A third interpretation, not previously raised, is that it is a banner, attached to a pole, which either pierces or is held alongside the animal’s body. The mane suggests that it could depict a lion, but it is possible that the flourish represents either a cross or a banner, allowing an alternative interpretation of the animal as an Agnus Dei, or lamb of God. The Agnus Dei is a motif which appears commonly in Romanesque art, frequently depicted on the tympana of churches. Although the mane of the Maeshowe creature might not seem particularly lamb-​like, this is in fact a common feature of the Agnus Dei, which is described repeatedly in the Book of Revelations as a ‘lion-​like lamb,’ which is ‘slain but standing.’ The Agnus Dei holds the banner of the resurrection, which depicts a cross, and was understood to be a representation of Christ. An example from a thirteenth-​ century crozier, probably from Italy and now in the Louvre, shows similar iconography to the Maeshowe creature, in particular in the regardant posture of the animal’s head.53 While the Agnus Dei is usually depicted holding with its raised foreleg the cross shaft or banner pole across its body, George Zarnecki has identified a twelfth-​century example from a font in Grønbæk in Denmark where the lamb is pierced by the cross it holds, suggesting that the Maeshowe animal’s body might also pierced by the shaft of a cross or banner pole.54

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28  Sarah Randles

Figure 1.1 The Maeshowe ‘dragon,’ Orkney. Used with the permission of Historic Environment Scotland.

If the Maeshowe carving were indeed intended to represent an Agnus Dei, it would have served a powerful apotropaic function. The image of the Agnus Dei as representative of Christ was widely distributed in the Middle Ages, from the tenth century onwards particularly in the form of wax discs stamped with the image, and made from the Paschal candles blessed by the Pope at Easter. These were considered to be sacramentals –​holy materials with miraculous power.55 A  possible source for the Agnus Dei imagery in a Norse context comes from its use on coins, starting with those issued by King Æthelred in 1009. The majority of these coins have been found in Scandinavian hoards, and half of the known examples are pierced, indicating that they may have been worn as talismans. King Olaf of Norway had

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Engaging with the past in Medieval Orkney 29 also had coins minted that featured the Agnus Dei, increasing the likelihood that these were familiar to the Norse in Orkney.56 The idea that the carvings in Maeshowe might be intended to be apotropaic was strengthened by the discovery on 26 September 2013 of a fragment of the Lord’s Prayer carved in runes, in Latin, on a piece of stone at Orphir.57 Like similar examples found in Sweden and Norway, this stone would have served as a powerful and tangible protection. While the dragon interpretation of the Maeshowe creature must be dismissed as unlikely, if it is either a lion or an Agnus Dei, it imbues the Maeshowe site with an overt Christian symbolism, in keeping with the carved crosses and the runic inscriptions referring to Jerusalem-​farers. Two different but overlapping ‘emotional communities,’ to use Barbara Rosenwein’s terminology, can therefore be observed in the Norse inscriptions in Maeshowe.58 There were those who produced the ‘grafitti’ in its modern sense, using the walls of the tomb to mark their identity and boast of exploits, displaying a disregard for the perils such a space might have held; and there were also those who were aware of the spiritual and physical dangers it presented, who were careful to identify themselves as Christians and to inscribe the space with spiritual protection. It is tempting to suggest that only after Earl Harald’s expedition, when fear of the inhabitant of the burial mound was sufficient to cause madness, but in which no haugr was encountered, was it possible to mark the walls with less-​serious text. By inscribing the Neolithic stones of Maeshowe and elsewhere in Orkney, the Norse inhabitants were poised between their future and their past. The response to the stones they encountered, particularly at Maeshowe, drew upon the intangible heritage they had brought with them from Scandinavia, framing their interpretation of the found landscape within their existing cultural mythology and shaping their emotional reactions accordingly. As the Norse settlers sought to colonise and appropriate the landscape, they also reused the Pictish sites for new buildings and burials, denaturing the perceived power of sites which they recognised as sacred, asserting identity and ownership and colonising the past of a new landscape by reinterpreting the monuments in the light of their own cultural history. In doing so, they revisioned the Neolithic monuments as places to be feared. The Christian inscriptions at Maeshowe and the Ring of Brodgar, including the Maeshowe animal, if it indeed is an Agnus Dei, show that the Norsemen understood the dangers of the built environment they had encountered in terms of their Scandinavian cultural heritage, but also that they believed in the talismanic power of Christian material symbols to protect them against such dangers. The same stones which produced their fear could also provide the means of alleviating it, as a medium in which to carve the protective symbols which would control or remove the source of that fear. In this way, these stones also provided a potential medium for the Norse runecarvers to create a heritage for the future, in the form of an enduring record of their names and their emotional experience. As Alicia Marchant has pointed out in the Introduction

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30  Sarah Randles to this volume, the creation of heritage requires a projection forwards in time to the imagined future viewer, and these inscriptions were meant to be read in an act of commemoration. The relationship with the stones of the past was thus ambivalent for the medieval Orcadians. By modifying the built environment they encountered, in both emotional and material ways, they demonstrate Laurajane Smith’s observation that heritage is ultimately a cultural practice.59 Their carved symbols have, in their turn, become positive marks of the contemporary identity of Orkney, endlessly reinterpreted in a variety of media, evoking memory and celebrating as heritage the Orcadian palimpsest in stone.

Notes 1 I wish to express my gratitude to the Australian Research Council Centre of Excellence for the History of the Emotions for providing funding to allow for field and archival research for this project, and to James Thompson and Jean Swanson of Lobady in Orkney for their hospitality and generosity in introducing me to the wonders of Neolithic and later Orkney. 2 David C. Harvey, ‘The History of Heritage’, The Ashgate Research Companion to Heritage and Identity, ed. Brian Graham and Peter Howard (Farnham: Ashgate, 2008), 19. 3 Andrew Meirion Jones, Prehistoric Materialities: Becoming Material in Prehistoric Britain and Ireland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 111. 4 Angela McClanahan, The Heart of Neolithic Orkney in Its Contemporary Contexts: A Case Study in Heritage Management and Community Values (Historic Scotland/​ World Heritage Sites Publications, 2004). www.historicenvironment. scot/​archives-​and-​research/​publications/​publication/​?publicationid=aa74ce1b​4f4e-​4e5d-​84b2-​a58e00eb804d. 5 ‘Orkney Tourism Strategy and Action Plan’, Visit Scotland, accessed 23 January 2017.www.orkney.gov.uk/​Files/​Council/​Publications/​2010/​OrkneyVisitorSurvey_​ 2009_​FinalReport.pdf. 6 Benno Gammerl, ‘Emotional Styles:  Concepts and Challenges’, Researching Emotions, Rethinking History: The Journal of Theory and Practice 16:2 (2012): 161–​75. 7 David C. Harvey, ‘The History of Heritage’, The Ashgate Research Companion to Heritage and Identity, ed. Brian Graham and Peter Howard (Farnham: Ashgate, 2008), 22. 8 William P.L. Thomson, The New History of Orkney, 3rd ed. (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 2008),  8–​18. 9 The sometimes-​intense debate between scholars over whether the Norse colonisation of Orkney was a peaceful and gradual settlement or a sudden and violent genocide has been summarised by Thomson in The New History of Orkney, 40–​55. Thomson supports the argument for a violent colonisation. Iain Crawford has argued that the scarcity of evidence for Pictish cultural survival after the arrival of the Norse, including an absence of place names and a dearth of archaeological evidence, is indicative of genocide. He finds a parallel in the Tasmanian Aboriginal experience (Iain Crawford, ‘War or Peace: Viking Colonisation in the

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Engaging with the past in Medieval Orkney 31 Northern and Western Isles of Scotland Reviewed’, Proceedings of the Eighth Viking Congress, ed. Hans Bekker-​Nielsen et  al. (Odense:  Odense University Press, 1981), 259–​69). In Orkney, as elsewhere, it is worth remembering that genocide tends to be heavily gendered, with indigenous men being killed while women often survive to hand down the genes of both colonisers and indigenous peoples. New studies on the genes of modern Orcadians shed more light on the nature of the Norse colonisation of Orkney in this respect, making it clear that the Norse settlers did not simply and completely replace the previous population (Stephen Leslie et al., ‘The Fine-​scale Genetic Structure of the British Population’, Nature 519 (19 March 2015): 309–​14). 10 Jocelyn Rendall, Steering the Stone Ships: The Story of Orkney Kirks and People (Edinburgh: Saint Andrew Press, 2009), 30. 11 The Futhark rune row is named for the first six runic letters. Here, as throughout this chapter, runic characters thorn and eth have both been transcribed as ‘th’. 12 Michael P.  Barnes, Runes:  A Handbook (Woodbridge:  Boydell and Brewer, 2012), 144–​52. 13 While runestones were usually made to purpose, they could also adapt existing boulders. They are found across Scandinavia and span both pagan and Christian periods, with many incorporating explicitly Christian elements. Dick Harrison and Kristina Svensson, Vikingaliv (Värnamo: Fälth and Hässler, 2007), 192. 14 In the close-​to 5000 years since Maeshowe was built, however, the earth’s axis has shifted just enough that the square of light is off-​centre by a few centimetres. 15 Barnes, Runes:  A Handbook, 119–​20; 148–​51. Scholars have differed on the precise number of inscriptions at Maeshowe, which depends on how particular texts are divided and counted. 16 Barnes, Runes: A Handbook, 119–​20; 148–​51. The Orcadian runes at the Ring of Brodgar, Maeshowe and elsewhere in Orkney are recorded, along with runic inscriptions from elsewhere in Scandinavia, in the Scandinavian Runic-​ text Database (Samnordisk runtextdatabas), hereafter SRTD, which is hosted by Uppsala University and available at www.nordiska.uu.se/​forskn/​samnord.htm/​ (accessed 20 January 2017). It is a searchable database providing information on all known runic inscriptions. 17 Barnes, Runes: A Handbook, 119. 18 For examples of modern uses of runes in Orkney, see www.olagoriejewellery. com/​collections/​maeshowe-​runes and www.judithglue.com/​collections/​orkney-​ knitwear-​runes (accessed 22 May 2018). 19 Sigurd Towrie, ‘Maeshowe’s Runes –​Viking Graffiti’, Orkneyjar: The Heritage of the Orkney Islands. www.orkneyjar.com/​history/​maeshowe/​maeshrunes.htm (accessed 20 January 2017). 20 Judith Jesch, The Nine Skills of Earl Rögnvaldr of Orkney (Nottingham: University of Nottingham, 2006), 8. 21 Barnes, Runes: A Handbook, 119. 22 SRTD: Or Barnes21 M. 23 SRTD: Or Barnes10 M. 24 SRTD: Or Barnes23 M. 25 There is no credible evidence that Ragnar Lothbrok was a historical figure, and it is likely that his legend conflates stories from several sources. His sons,

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32  Sarah Randles apparently also mentioned in the inscription (though the grammar makes it unclear), were Viking raiders, attested in ninth-​century historical sources. 26 N.K. Chadwick, ‘Norse Ghosts (A Study in the Draugr and Haugbúi)’, Folklore 57:2 (1946): 50–​65, 50. 27 Charlotte Fabech and Ulf Näsman, ‘Ritual Landscapes and Sacral Spaces in the First Millennium AD in South Scandinavia’, in Sacred Sites and Holy Places:  Exploring the Sacralization of Landscape through Time and Place, ed. Sæbjørg Walaker Nordeide and Stefan Brink (Turnhout:  Brepols, 2013), 53–​109,  66. 28 Alexandra Walsham, The Reformation of the Landscape: Religion, Identity, and Memory in Early Modern Britain and Ireland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 21. 29 SRTD: Or Barnes20 M. 30 Barnes, Runes: A Handbook, 170. 31 SRTD: Or Barnes26 M. 32 SRTD: Or Barnes27 M. 33 SRTD: Or Barnes28 M. 34 SRTD: Or Barnes4 M. 35 Sigurd Towrie, ‘Treasure in the Howe?’, Orkneyjar: The Heritage of the Orkney Islands. www.orkneyjar.com/​history/​maeshowe/​maeshtreasure.htm (accessed 20 January 2017). 36 SRTD: Or Barnes1 M. 37 Orkahaugr is the Norse term for Maeshowe, used both in Orkneyinga Saga and in the inscriptions in Maeshowe itself. 38 Orkneyinga Saga: A History of the Earls of Orkney, trans. Herman Pálsson and Paul Edwards (London: Penguin, 1981), 188. 39 Towrie, ‘Treasure in the Howe?’ 40 Chadwick, ‘Norse Ghosts (A Study in the Draugr and Haugbúi)’, 50–​65, 50. 41 Ibid., 52. 42 James Farrer, Notice of Runic Inscriptions Discovered during Recent Excavations in the Orkneys (Edinburgh:  Privately printed, 1862), 12. Hugboys are also associated with other mounds in Orkney, including Hellie Howe on Sanday. 43 SRTD: Or Barnes14 M. 44 SRTD: Or Barnes21 M. 45 Jesch, The Nine Skills, 8. 46 SRTD: Or Barnes22 M. Benedikt and Simon are the only two obviously Christian names that appear in the Maeshowe inscriptions. 47 Examples of crusader crosses appear in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem and in Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. Silvia Nilsen identifies a number of crosses carved in churches along the Camino de Santiago de Compostela and suggests that these are pilgrim signs. Silvia Nilsen, ‘Signs in the Stones’, Peregrinations 3:1 (2010). http://​peregrinations.kenyon.edu/​vol3_​1/​photo_​ essays/​stones/​stones.html (accessed 20 January 2017). 48 Walsham, The Reformation of the Landscape, 30. 49 Ibid., 30. 50 Farrer, Notice of Runic Inscriptions, 16. 51 Despite the indistinct nature of the original carving, the Maeshowe dragon is a common symbol on giftware and clothing sold in Orkney. Objects include tea-​ towels, coffee mugs, key rings, wrapping paper and jewellery. An Internet search

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Engaging with the past in Medieval Orkney 33 reveals that it has also been the subject of a number of tattoos, suggesting that its appeal is to Orcadians who wish to express their cultural heritage as much as to tourists. 52 George Zarnecki, ‘Germanic Animal Motifs in Romanesque Sculpture’, Artibus et Historiae 11:22 (1990): 189–​203, 196–​7. 53 Louvre Museum, object number OA 7267. 54 George Zarnecki, ‘Germanic Animal Motifs in Romanesque Sculpture’, 196. 55 Caroline Walker Bynum, Christian Materiality:  An Essay on Religion in Late Medieval Europe (New York: Zone Books, 2011), 21–​2, 160. 56 Simon Keynes, ‘An Abbott, an Archbishop, and the Vikings Raids of 1006–​7 and 1009–​12’, Anglo-​Saxon England, 36 (2007), 151–​224, 190–​3, 200. Svein H. Gullbekk, ‘Coinage and Monetary Economies’, The Viking World, ed. Stefan Brink and Neil Price (London: Routledge, 2008), 159–​69. 57 Sigurd Towrie, ‘Viking Runestone Found on Medieval Scholar’s Farmland’, Orkneyjar: The Heritage of the Orkney Islands. http://​viking-​archaeology-​blog. blogspot.com/​2013/​11/​viking-​runestone-​found-​on-​medieval.html (accessed 20 January 2017). 58 Barbara H.  Rosenwein, Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2006). 59 Laurajane Smith, Uses of Heritage (London: Routledge, 2006), 11.

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2  Wulfstan of Worcester’s weeping The architecture of the Norman Conquest as a site of cross-​cultural emotion Jane-​Héloïse Nancarrow William of Malmesbury’s early twelfth-​century Gesta Pontificum Anglorum¸ or Deeds of the English Bishops, describes an episode of deep emotional distress experienced by the late-​Saxon Bishop Wulfstan of Worcester. Upon witnessing the destruction of the church of St Peter at Worcester  –​built by Wulfstan’s predecessor, Saint Oswald  –​Wulfstan uttered the following heartfelt cry. We unfortunates are destroying the works of saints in order to win praise for ourselves. In that happy age men were incapable of building for display; their way was to sacrifice themselves to God under any sort of roof, and to encourage their subjects to follow their example. But we strive to pile up stones while neglecting souls.1 (William of Malmesbury, 2007, iv.141.5) An alternative account by the same author, preserved in the Vita Wulfstani, describes the sorrowing bishop immediately before making this speech: ‘Wulfstan stood in the open air to watch, and could not keep back his tears.’2 This moment of architectural destruction and loss of Saxon material heritage was clearly of profound emotional significance to Wulfstan. Yet here he weeps not only for the destruction of the humble older church, but also because a newer, seemingly more ostentatious church was being built in its stead. The new church upheld many emergent continental Norman architectural values –​it was significantly larger and, as we shall see, more expansive in its artistic agenda. To Wulfstan (who had a formidable reputation for religious piety), the stylistically imposing structures which the Normans introduced to England following the Conquest of 1066 were not reflective of a truly pious clergy. As the last surviving English bishop following the Norman Conquest, Wulfstan was deeply critical of those who sought praise through overt architectural display.3 Unable to ‘keep back his tears,’ Wulfstan’s fondness for the smaller churches and monastic families of the pre-​Conquest period embodies the psychological impact that Norman

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Wulfstan of Worcester’s weeping 35 monastic reform and monumental architectural design had begun to have upon the English landscape in the last decades of the eleventh century. Yet the historical context to Wulfstan’s anguish reveals a surprising and detailed picture of contact and exchange with imported Norman architectural traditions. Archaeological evidence confirms that parts of the older Saxon church, including its re-​used Roman remains, were incorporated into the material fabric of the Norman church by 1089.4 Wulfstan thus weeps for only the partial loss of the structure of St Oswald’s church at Worcester. Moreover, other documentary evidence reveals that Wulfstan himself had actually commissioned the destruction and replacement of the building. When work on the main church, which he [Wulfstan] had himself started from the foundations, had grown large enough for the monks to move across to it, the word was given for the old church, the work of blessed St Oswald, to be stripped of its roof and demolished.5 (William of Malmesbury, 2007, iv. 141.4) These historical circumstances present a noteworthy conundrum. We know that Wulfstan elsewhere cited practical reasons for rebuilding the church –​ a charter issued by the bishop in 1089, preserved in an eleventh-​century cartulary held in the cathedral library, states:  ‘I Wulfstan, by the grace of God, pontiff of the church of Worcester, desiring to enlarge the monastery … not only in the building and adorning of the church, but indeed also of the monks serving there.’ The charter then describes how the community had grown from 12 brethren to 50 during Wulfstan’s episcopate (which coincided with the monastic reforms of the late eleventh century), which presumably meant older, cramped lodgings required replacement with new monastic buildings and a church.6 Yet why did William of Malmesbury record Wulfstan’s grief-​stricken reaction to the demolition of the church on two separate occasions, when Wulfstan was the one responsible for its destruction? The answer to this question lies in the range of competing interests and influences upon Wulfstan at the time of the Norman Conquest. On the surface, Wulfstan’s outpourings of grief articulate the usurpation of insular Saxon material and emotional heritage, but this scenario is inherently more complex. Wulfstan was a man trapped between two worlds. Seemingly contradictory passages indicate the changing socio-​political conditions in the late-​Saxon and Conquest periods, where pressures upon Saxo-​Norman elites to incorporate the ‘old with the new’ were part of the transitional Conquest process. There were a range of material and emotional valences tied to Wulfstan’s role in the Norman Conquest and his embodiment of late-​Saxon, English heritage. This rare, early account of emotional distress can therefore be used to interrogate the interplay between Saxon literary traditions, memory, material culture and concepts of colonial power during the expansion of the Normans into England.

36

36  Jane-Héloïse Nancarrow In addition, Wulfstan’s experiences during the destruction of the Saxon church allow us to explore several emerging themes within the field of heritage studies. Foremost, this episode demonstrates the role of sensory experiences or emotions in generating and intersecting with intangible, non-​ material or performed heritage. Wulfstan’s outburst also highlights the complexities of pre-​modern colonially experienced heritages in challenging dominant historical narratives of power embedded into buildings or things.7 The strength of this methodological approach lies in integrating emotions and specific perspectives on twelfth-​century colonial experiences within the discipline of heritage studies –​an intellectually fruitful intersection between the materially expressed world of objects and buildings, and less-​tangible heritage of performance or experience.8 Within this, Wulfstan’s case operates as ‘micro-​heritage’ where an individual, intimate encounter with a single monastic building is reflective of wider social forces for change. This scenario demonstrates the social and emotional conditions which may have characterised the emergence of the Anglo-​Norman Romanesque style. This material heritage was emblematic of the profoundly altered English architectural and political landscape in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and remains vitally important in contemporary heritage narratives around the emergence of English nationhood today. Finally, Wulfstan fiercely guards what he perceives as his own insular English history, allowing us to expand and reconceptualise ‘heritage’ as a narrative that can be constructed, reclaimed or reimagined within any period of history (in this case, the eleventh and twelfth centuries).9 Heritage, therefore, becomes a multifaceted framework for understanding the competing social, political and emotional conditions of this particular episode.

Wulfstan of Worcester: probing the heritage of the ‘last English bishop’ Understanding the cultural context in which Wulfstan of Worcester lived can help explain how he later came to instrumentally shape the development of an English post-​Conquest heritage. Wulfstan was born into a Saxon ecclesiastical family around 1008, and received an intensive education at Evesham and Peterborough monastic schools, which set him upon the path to religious life from an early age.10 Upon entering the monastery at Worcester as an adult, Wulfstan acquired a reputation as a deeply conscientious spiritual leader with singular dedication to the eleventh-​century Benedictine reform movement. Despite his own misgivings, Wulfstan was quickly promoted, culminating in his appointment to the bishopric of Worcester in 1062 with widespread support from his peers, papal legates and King Edward the Confessor (1003–​1066). At the time of the Norman Conquest, Wulfstan was heavily committed to the interests of native King Harold, who had succeeded Edward in 1066 and reigned in England for only one year. After Harold was killed at the Battle of Hastings in 1066 and William the Conqueror’s forces

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Wulfstan of Worcester’s weeping 37 were circling London, laying waste to all they encountered, Wulfstan saw negotiation with William as the only way to prevent further bloodshed.11 Wulfstan, alongside many English secular leaders, submitted to William the Conqueror in the winter of 1066. As a result of his fealty, Wulfstan was famed as one of the few high-​ranking English churchmen to keep his position after the Norman Conquest. Indeed, when Wulfstan died in 1095, he was the only English-​born bishop left in England.12 Wulfstan’s profession of canonical obedience to the royally appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, Lanfranc (d. 1089), proved a key factor in the transition from Anglo-​Saxon to Anglo-​Norman Christianity, yet Wulfstan took pains to preserve many insular traditions and, even while alive, was treated as a living ‘touchstone’ of English religious heritage. Wulfstan’s strict piety was, as he claimed, modelled on the lives of Dunstan and Oswald  –​two pre-​Conquest Northumbrian saints who had also been former bishops of Worcester.13 Despite his professed allegiance to the Norman regime, Wulfstan’s cultivation of English textual culture at Worcester allowed the monastery to retain these insular saints’ cults, and possibly contributed to the Northumbrian monastic revival of the twelfth century.14 Wulfstan’s promotion of the cult of St Oswald (supported by accounts such as the one here) stood in contrast to the infiltration of Norman hagiographic ideals, leading to the perpetuation and then recreation of an insular, post-​Conquest English heritage.15 The English-​language library at Worcester demonstrates strong ties to pre-​Conquest literary culture, which then ‘virtually ceased’ after Wulfstan’s death.16 His survival into the first generation of post-​Conquest French monastic recruits also meant that he managed to inculcate young Worcester monks with traditional English values, effectively creating spiritual ‘bloodlines’ through perpetuation of the earlier Saxon monastic brotherhood.17 As R.W. Southern noted in 1970: ‘of all the Old English monasteries, Worcester was the most successful in preserving its links with the past.’18 Even as an unquestionable embodiment of the heritage of the native English, Wulfstan was nevertheless somewhat shielded from the process of colonisation. While Wulfstan’s humility and asceticism were undoubtedly amplified in the hagiographical narratives commemorating his life, he was unique in the retention of his post during the turmoil of the Norman Conquest. He maintained good working relationships with both Lanfranc and William I  immediately following the Conquest, often placing himself in the service of the king, witnessing documents of dubious authenticity on several occasions.19 By the early 1090s, Wulfstan’s was the sole surviving voice that could pronounce with any authority on traditional ecclesiastical land ownership and political rights in the absence of supporting documentation.20 In witnessing such land grants, Wulfstan was actively involved in post-​Conquest processes of heritage-​making, professing to perpetuate English traditions, while simultaneously promoting the interests of the Norman elite. Wulfstan’s position of apparent political privilege is therefore

38

38  Jane-Héloïse Nancarrow countered by the outpouring of grief in Malmesbury’s account –​a seemingly genuine expression of distress at the removal of Saxon material heritage at Worcester.

Nostalgia, longing and the shedding of tears in late-​Saxon textual heritage William of Malmesbury’s Gesta Pontificum and his earlier Vita Wulfstani, with their depictions of Wulfstan’s anguish, both derive from a pre-​Conquest English source. In his prefatory letter to the Vita, William indicates that his work is a Latin rendering of an earlier Life of Wulfstan, composed in Old English by Coleman, William’s chaplain.21 This monk, Coleman, had lived at Worcester during the time of Wulfstan, and began composing his English Life in 1095, the year of Wulfstan’s death. Accounts of sorrow in late-​Saxon literature, particularly those outpourings of grief witnessed in pre-​Conquest elegiac poetry, may shed light on Wulfstan’s emotional state as transmitted via Coleman’s text. In the fictional poetic narratives of the Old English The Wanderer, The Wife’s Lament and The Ruin, lamentation and grief are heavily bound to memory and ‘processes of remembering.’22 In each poem, the unnamed protagonist experiences a critical sense of loss at the passing of past joys, civilisations or ways of life, where personal tragedy or physical decay is contextualised by universal suffering in the last age of the world.23 The poems’ subjects experience grief temporally –​relating both to solemnity in the present and sober commemoration of what has passed.24 Wulfstan’s lament for an earlier time and a smaller, more pious house invokes the same memorial tenets and unresolvable grief. The role of nostalgia, desire and longing in the creation of heritage generates distance from an idealised past (certainly when compared with Wulfstan’s resoundingly less-​pious present). Descriptions of Wulfstan’s grief may therefore echo and reproduce aspects of the Saxon elegiac tradition to articulate a particularly ‘English’ heritage. Where the shedding of tears occurs in late-​Saxon English narratives, Tracy-​Anne Cooper suggests that the tears ‘indicate moments of extreme significance; signal that an event is particularly noteworthy; or that the weeper “is especially praiseworthy”.’25 Descriptions of tears and crying had a range of purposes, including political communication in the late-​Saxon world, where ‘tears greased the wheels of politics’ and could be used to petition for political reward or defuse tense political situations.26 Within the Saxon tradition, expressions of grief could also be highly complex and layered.27 As the Vita Wulfstani’s account of Wulfstan’s grief continues, the bishop is torn –​lamenting, while fully responsible, the destruction of the old church. He stood there in the silent cemetery, thereupon sighing deeply. The thought appeared to him, bubbling forth from his heart; after some time, he erupted in an enormous shower of tears. ‘How much better

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Wulfstan of Worcester’s weeping 39 than us was Saint Oswald, who made this church? How many holy men of religion have served God in it?’28 (William of Malmesbury, 1928, 52) This account of Wulfstan’s grief is of closer textual origin to the Old English Life than Malmesbury’s Gesta Pontificum. The ‘enormous shower of tears’ has parallels in Old English ‘wollenteare’, which means ‘with gushing tears’, seen in other Old English parallels, such as Hrothgar’s parting from Beowulf. Wulfstan’s sorrow –​sighing and bubbling forth from his heart –​ also echoes Hrothgar’s ‘þone breostwylm’, meaning ‘breast surging’, from the same passage. While speculative, these linguistic parallels may show productive links between Old English poetic manifestations of emotions and later Latin renderings of Wulfstan’s emotional narrative. The range of what Barbara Rosenwein terms ‘emotion words’ in this passage also exposes the temporal and physical interplay between mind and body in the expression of anguish.29 Wulfstan’s grief starts as a sigh, turns into a thought (or cognitive process), to a swelling in his heart and then, finally, a flood of tears. The sophisticated language here, drawing from Old English traditions, is used to convey emotion as a recursive mental and physical process. Monique Scheer conceptualises this as ‘emotional practice’, where the repeated process of emoting situates the body in the world.30 Wulfstan’s sighs, thoughts, heartache and tears articulate a range of tangible and intangible emotive practices, aligning Wulfstan’s behaviour and emotions with a lost, lamented, insular English heritage. In this passage, Wulfstan’s physical tears were imbued with narrative sanctity, echoing his other sacred capabilities for baptism, consecrating churches and healing the mentally ill.31 Wulfstan’s reputation for such diverse powers suggests bodily investment with a spiritual charisma and sanctity extending beyond the hagiographical ‘norm’. In the highly symbolic worlds of Old English poetry, gesture, action and posture contributed to directing audience responses.32 Therefore, Wulfstan’s holiness, heightened by descriptions of his emotive behaviour and the material and sacred properties of his grief (gestures and tears), imbued his whole body with the capacity to tell a story. These physical and material frameworks convey emotional heritages –​his physical poses and frantic cries were both a relic and expression of the intangible heritage of Saxon England.

Developing a materiality of bodily emotions: crying in the twelfth century Old English texts were copied into hundreds of new manuscripts following the Conquest, even as shifting patronage, literary culture and attitudes to the past during the twelfth-​century renaissance precipitated a distinct break in textual practice.33 Literary culture of the early Norman period was ‘complex and layered, woven from old and new, English, French and

40

40  Jane-Héloïse Nancarrow Latin, with different traditions, languages and genres in conversation.’34 We know that William of Malmesbury translated Coleman’s Old English Life of Wulfstan into Latin from 1113–​1124, and there are many indications this was, from close textual analysis, a relatively faithful translation.35 There are several other textual indications that Malmesbury may have applied an interpretive lens to Wulfstan’s emotions when translating Coleman’s Life, in accordance with the required textual conventions of hagiography and history. William of Malmesbury’s accounts must be understood in the context of twelfth-​century engagement and textual reception of Old English literature on emotions following the Conquest. From the late eleventh to the twelfth century, natural explanations and systematic investigation of material surroundings became more prevalent. The detailed description of Wulfstan’s grief, and its incisive attention to the material world, suggests twelfth-​ century innovation, embellishment and realistic observation are at play in Malmesbury’s account.36 The literary treatment of Wulfstan’s emotions was therefore filtered through the linguistic shift from Old English to Latin, and also through several layers of later Anglo-​Norman interpretation. The chronological distance between William of Malmesbury and his eleventh-​century subject creates a temporal experience of emotions and, over this time, Wulfstan’s grief might have acquired, accumulated and possibly even lost emotional meanings. From the twelfth century onwards, texts also had a much ‘greater focus on the emotional and religious life of individuals.’37 During this period, the ‘charisma of tears’ appeared more frequently, as tears became an expected part of emotional or religious stimuli in men and women. Churchmen who produced texts describing this phenomenon were heavily influenced by patristic theology such as the well-​known example of highly emotional crying by Aelred of Rievaulx (1110–​1167). In his Mirror of Charity, Aelred modelled his pious tears following the death of his friend Simon on the exemplar of Jesus’ tears for Lazarus.38 Although Aelred of Rievaulx was born in 1110, some 44 years after the Norman Conquest, he was of northern English stock and, like Wulfstan, expressed a multivalent Saxo-​Norman identity. Aelred praised the ability to summon tears at will as an expression of piety, naming tears as ‘a most pleasing and acceptable sacrifice to God’.39 At the conclusion of Aelred’s eulogy to Simon, Aelred declares ‘I shall follow you with my tears, whatever their worth. I shall follow you with my attachment’.40 This form of crying was obviously deemed appropriate for churchmen, particularly for those who crossed the Saxo-​Norman divide. The display of tears may have ensured that men like Aelred and Wulfstan secured their place in post-​ Conquest emotional landscapes. William of Malmesbury’s later homage to this convention may even have helped smooth the transition from Saxon to Norman rule, by appropriating and then neutralising the political power of Saxon elegiac traditions. By the second generation after the Conquest, Anglo-​ Norman writers were increasingly interested in preserving the reputation of Anglo-​Saxon

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Wulfstan of Worcester’s weeping 41 saints. Pre-​Conquest saints’ cults drew lucrative business and patronage to Norman monasteries, and the preservation of pre-​Conquest English heritage became a key feature of monastic writing.41 The English historian Eadmer described Wulfstan as ‘the one sole survivor of the old Fathers of the English people,’ and similarly nostalgic attitudes were considered entirely appropriate when William of Malmesbury wrote about Wulfstan 60 years after the Norman Conquest. However, despite his seeming investment in restoring the reputation of the Saxon saints with his production of the Gesta Pontificum Anglorum, Malmesbury may not have been entirely supportive of Wulfstan’s crying.42 Describing Wulfstan’s grief, Malmesbury writes, ‘after some time, he erupted in an enormous shower of tears’ [Que ingentem imbrem lacrimarum ferens tandem erupit].43 Here, ‘ingentem’ is translated as ‘enormous’, and can alternatively mean ‘marvellous’, ‘vast’ or ‘huge’. If taken as ‘immoderate’ or ‘unnatural,’ the term may suggest that Malmesbury perceived Wulfstan’s outburst as inappropriate or excessive. Wulfstan’s affective reaction may be mediated by Malmesbury’s twelfth-​ century Latin word choices –​an externally imposed emotional regime which subtly condemned Wulfstan’s uncontrolled outpouring.

The advent of a Norman architectural heritage Wulfstan’s overpowering, conflicted feelings are intrinsically connected to his construction of the new church at Worcester, built in the Anglo-​Norman Romanesque style which flourished in the century following the English Conquest. While the concept of the ‘Norman Empire’ is the subject of ongoing debate (with terminology related to colonialism and imperialism proving problematic to apply in a twelfth-​century context), in the strictest architectural sense, a definition of ‘colonial’ behaviour can be applied to Romanesque buildings of a scale which set them apart from Anglo-​Saxon building practices.44 Throughout history, monumentality has tended to be more prevalent in the formative stages of new civilisations, or at times of the consolidation of centralised power.45 The starkness, repetitiveness and vastness of Anglo-​Norman abbeys, churches and defensive fortifications demonstrate the aims of conquerors ‘in a hurry to make their mark.’46 The buildings of Norman England were ‘larger and more inventive, eclectic and exotic, looking to the Empire and Rome … triumphalist, rivalling the handful of buildings of greatest prestige on the Continent.’47 Access to the materials, skills and labour needed to build on such a large scale required the Normans, eager to create their own ‘English heritage,’ to amass huge resources of wealth and human capital. Worcester’s archaeological and architectural records offer clues to how this process played out in Wulfstan’s local context, which can be used to refine our understanding of demolition and renewal in the Norman material record. Goscelin de St Bertin, a twelfth-​century historian who spent a large part of his life living in England after the Norman Conquest, expressed his distaste

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42  Jane-Héloïse Nancarrow for pre-​Conquest architecture (and preference for Norman buildings):  ‘I greatly dislike little buildings’; ‘he destroys well who builds something better’; and ‘If given the means, I would not allow buildings to stand unless they were … glorious, magnificent, most lofty, most spacious, filled with light and most beautiful.’48 Goscelin even described the late-​Saxon house at Canterbury as ‘unsuitable for monastic habitation’, communicating an aversion to the living conditions in cramped pre-​Conquest buildings.49 For monastic authors such as Goscelin, the massive buildings of the Normans demonstrated, and in themselves became, a form of tangible Norman heritage. This new heritage had a significant impact upon England’s collective psyche (and continues to do so today). When we examine the architectural features of Wulfstan’s church, it becomes apparent that Wulfstan’s building employed many Norman techniques, proportions and scale. In the Vita Wulfstani, the church that Wulfstan builds is described in wondrous terms: ‘you will not easily find an ornament that did not decorate it. So it was wonderful in individual details; and in all things unique.’50 Beyond the overall size of the building, the most telling of these is the large ambulatory crypt, chevron moulding and acanthus leaf capitals. Hence, much of Wulfstan’s architectural legacy was deliberately designed to facilitate the material integration of Saxon elites within post-​Conquest England.

Worcester Cathedral: a convergent architectural exemplar? While building castles and cathedrals was undoubtedly a tool of Norman imperial policy, the proliferation of these buildings by the English may undermine the narrative of a ‘forced Conquest’ inflicted upon insular cultural practices. Aleksandra McClain discusses the complicity and adaptive behaviour of the native English in effecting post-​Conquest change, and calls for an examination of the Norman transition in which ‘the conquered played as much a part in the dialogue of change as the conquerors.’51 As such, Wulfstan’s lament over ‘building for display’ and ‘piling up stones’ emerges from a deep opposition to the Norman architectural ideal, and may fit within a wider Conquest narrative which resisted Norman hegemony. At Worcester, revisionist analyses of architectural and sculptural features have foregrounded pre-​Conquest decorative elements within the Norman architecture. Chevron moulding, mentioned above as a firmly Norman decorative element, has Anglo-​Saxon precedents in herringbone masonry.52 Acanthus sculptural detail is also featured in pre-​Conquest buildings, and may indicate that Saxon masons worked closely with their Norman counterparts under Saxo-​Norman patrons, such as Wulfstan.53 Likewise, the unadorned cushion capitals in the Norman crypt at Worcester possibly derive from a pre-​ Conquest source, and were later adopted with vigour by Norman builders across England following the Conquest. Although the transept walls to the height of the clerestory are Norman, they are built of uncoursed rubble work roughly laid with wide

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Wulfstan of Worcester’s weeping 43 joints of mortar, which evokes the earlier ‘rustic’ building style of the Saxons.54 Finally, a column capital depicting a dragon in the Worcester crypt compares stylistically with creatures in Anglo-​Saxon manuscripts such as the Salisbury Psalter of West Country origin (Cathedral Library, MS150) or the Gospels from Canterbury in Cambridge (Trinity College B.10.4).55 The Worcester commentary on the Song of Songs also depicts a similar dragon (Worcester Cathedral Library MS Q 16; Worcester Cathedral Library fol. 112v). Christopher Kauffmann, working from relatively undecorated manuscript illustrations held in Worcester’s collections, calls this the ‘Worcester house style’, reproduced closely in sculptural choices in the Norman church.56 Continuity with Saxon material heritage is also reflected in the larger structure of the church. Worcester was the earliest major church built after the Norman Conquest in the West Midlands, with archetypes of larger Romanesque buildings copied from further afield at St Augustine’s, Canterbury, and Westminster.57 This may have been the result of artistic cross-​fertilisation from Wulfstan’s disciple, Prior Nicholas (d.1124), who was sent to Archbishop Lanfranc at Canterbury.58 Nonetheless, the Norman chapterhouse, polygonal ambulatory, and transept chapel all evoke markedly Saxon forms. The circular Norman chapterhouse echoes the surviving pre-​Conquest chapterhouse at Jarrow, and Worcester may have copied this Saxon exemplar which was later transmitted to the continent. Deliberate emulation of Saxon styles in the chapterhouse, dated at the latest to 1100–​ 1115, may also explain the heavy mouldings with a broad convex shape which ‘belong to the late-​Saxon period.’59 The Norman appetite for Saxon material heritage parallels the appropriation of Saxon saints and hagiographical traditions so evident in Malmesbury’s account of Wulfstan’s life, as well as the incorporation of Saxon remains and architectural style into the new church. Both phenomena challenge the idea of overt stylistic colonisation as an eradication of Saxon material heritage. Parallels with the blended architectural model at Worcester can be seen in the buildings of other English churchmen with similarly mixed allegiances. Paul of Caen (d.1093), Abbot of St Albans and originally from Pavia in Italy, supposedly destroyed the tombs of his Saxon predecessors and called them ‘English, boorish and uneducated’. Despite this, Paul of Caen deliberately employed Saxon architectural forms and building material in important areas of his new Norman church.60 Similarly, Gundulf of Rochester (d.1108) was a native Saxon who oversaw the construction of several important Norman castles at Colchester, Rochester and the Tower of London, mixing Saxon and Norman styles, masons and stonework sources in the service of the Norman elite.61 Wulfstan’s church therefore was not simply a link between Saxon and Norman architectural heritage, but created a paradigmatic archetype for this style, which became popular throughout England in later Norman buildings, and even on the continent.62 Worcester’s multi-​ layered heritage must also acknowledge pre-​existing connections with the Saxon past, closely correlated to Wulfstan’s own feelings about his material

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44  Jane-Héloïse Nancarrow surroundings. Wulfstan, through his sorrowing emotional mode and his building programme, negotiates important points of difference during this period of rapid architectural change –​resisting, yet selectively appropriating and adapting elements of Saxon and Norman heritage and material cultures.

Performed emotions and building as multivalent heritage practice And let bystanders relate that he [Wulfstan] ought not to be sad, but rather to rejoice, whom God had preserved for this grace, that the church might thus be seen to be glorified: in the manner of his tears he was steadfast [in lacrimarum proposito tenax fuit.]63 (William of Malmesbury, 1928, 52) Returning a final time to another excerpt from the Vita Wulfstani, the term ‘proposito’, above, is translated as the manner of Wulfstan’s steadfast tears; but this term can also mean intention, display or practice. The linguistic possibilities in this term suggest that Wulfstan’s grief may have been pre-​ planned, or contained a performative element. Lyn A. Blanchfield describes tears as a ‘complex intersection of the body, the mind and emotion, and are objects which can be manipulated.’64 William Christian asserts that people could learn to cry, and tears could be a sign of visible evidence in an ‘economy of sentiment.’65 Rosenwein’s concept of ‘systems of feeling’ describes a collective understanding of crying where tears can manipulate and reject wider socio-​cultural forces –​a reading that is particularly fruitful in the passages describing the destruction of the church at Worcester.66 According to Richard E. Barton, emotion words used by the twelfth-​century chronicler Orderic Vitalis ‘were employed to constitute power,’ indicating that words, objects and emotions could also subvert dominant narratives and appropriate the oncoming tide of Norman building which swept over England following the Conquest. Wulfstan’s grief may have been contrived or ritualistic, and possibly even strategic, an intangible performance of heritage paying homage to his ancestral church while ushering in the new architectural mode of the Normans. Wulfstan’s precarious station as the last English bishop in Norman England may have occasioned the political caution apparent in this situation. This is not to say that his grief was not genuine  –​rather that he, and possibly his biographer William of Malmesbury, sought to articulate ambivalence about his position. In his discussion of twelfth-​century Latin and Anglo-​ Norman chronicles, Lindsay Diggelmann explores the link between excess and restraint in emotional display and the honesty or disingenuity of the emotions in question.67 Diggelmann draws from chronicle accounts of Richard I (1157–​1199), whose often unrestrained outbursts of anger were considered symbols of honest expression and competent royal

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Wulfstan of Worcester’s weeping 45 rule. Furthermore, even if Wulfstan’s grief contains a performative element, this does not necessarily indicate a cynical appropriation of emotional display. At Wulfstan’s consecration, the bishop was described as ‘an Israelite indeed –​in whom there is no guile’ (John 1:47).68 Wulfstan’s ‘earthiness’ and proclivity for wearing sheepskins and quoting the old Northumbrian saints often made him the subject of ridicule by more urbane clerics and authors.69 Wulfstan was renowned for his honesty and lack of deceit, yet Malmesbury’s depiction of him as the embodiment of sentimentalism and simplicity must be contextualised in light of his potentially performed emotional and architectural activities. Like Wulfstan’s physical presence, the buildings of Worcester were instilled with moral and emotional valences. The ‘smaller, pious house’ of the Saxon Saint Oswald refers not only to the monastic canonry, but also their ecclesiastical buildings. Hence, the moral standing of the house at Worcester was tied to both the conduct of the monks and their immediate physical surrounds. Oswald’s old church, like Wulfstan’s tears, became a repository for traditional English sanctity, and its destruction instils this narrative with a physical memorial function. Wulfstan’s latent grief was catalysed by the demolition process; the buildings, for Wulfstan, held the key to his sorrow, inviting an emotional response from the reader which is innately linked to the physical world. Wulfstan and his grief are both a microcosm and material expression of his moral health of his house, and Worcester’s architecture functions as a physical and emotional mnemonic which structures his experience of sorrow. Wulfstan’s church and his grief become affective and embodied spaces which generate a ‘heritage of emotions’ –​where lamentation not only expresses sadness and loss, but becomes the vehicle to commemorate that which is grieved for.

Conclusion There are several explanations for Wulfstan’s sorrow during the replacement of the Saxon church at Worcester –​all of which relate to Wulfstan’s capacity as a transitional figure of the Norman Conquest who orchestrated and embodied a range of competing heritage practices. First, Wulfstan’s grief may derive from established Saxon behaviours or may articulate a deliberate homage to Saxon literary tropes in elegiac or patristic traditions, sympathetically inserted by William of Malmesbury in deference to England’s Saxon forebears. Yet from the use of language, particularly the word ingentem, Malmesbury’s account may also present a critical treatment of Wulfstan’s grief as immoderate or unnecessary. Alternatively, William’s inclusion of this naturalised, lifelike account may indicate the emergence of twelfth-​ century literary innovation or realistic observation as part of the evolving focus on personal detail and individuality. From an architectural perspective, Wulfstan’s tears function as a critique of the imperial monumentality and ostentation of the Norman Romanesque. However, given his attempts

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46  Jane-Héloïse Nancarrow to amalgamate Saxon and Norman architectural styles and support Norman hegemonic political power, this passage may describe a real outpouring of grief, showing Wulfstan’s reluctance and apologetic submission to both his Saxon forebears and the Normans. This treatment of the narrative demonstrates Wulstan’s ambivalent but careful compromise in his relatively unstable position following the Conquest. His tears may have been performative, but nonetheless genuine and deeply felt. The foregrounding of architecture, the material world and the emotional content in Malmesbury’s descriptions provides unique insight into the transition from Saxon to Norman heritage practice. Yet Wulfstan, along with his meticulous chronicler William of Malmesbury, was not simply reacting through his emotions and his building works to the turbulent socio-​political landscape following the Conquest. Both men were active agents in shaping the historicised, performative and embodied heritage narratives of the period. Wulfstan’s intangible grief and tangible church both function as heritage which conveys far-​ reaching political change  –​albeit felt, experienced and physically emoted. His emotional wellbeing, articulated within his physical surroundings, reflects the feelings of the wider polity in a process of political renegotiation. Heritage, like the artefacts of tears and buildings, becomes a hybrid concept. It is the intersection between the material, physical world and the implicit cultural meanings of Wulfstan’s experience as a conduit for dominant and subversive narratives of the Norman Conquest.

Notes 1 [Nos miseri sanctorum destruimus opera; pompatice putantes nos facere meliora. Quanto praestantior nobis sanctus Oswaldus, qui hanc fecit ecclesiam; quod sancti uiri religiosi in ea deo seruierunt.] 2 William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani of William of Malmesbury, ed. R.R Darlington (London: Royal Historical Society, 1928), 52. 3 Emma Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester 1008–​1095 (Oxford: Blackwell, 1990), 118. 4 The east wall of the cloister features earlier coursed rubble than the Norman ashlar surrounding it, and the north wall of the slype (passage into the chapterhouse) is comprised entirely of Saxon masonry. Alan Brooks and Nikolaus Pevsner, ‘Worcester Cathedral’, Worcestershire, Pevsner Architectural Guides: Buildings of England (New Haven, CT, and London: Yale University Press, 2007), 18, 697. 5 Author’s italics. [Cum ecclesiae maioris opus, quod ipse a fundamentis inceperat, ad hoc incrementi processisset ut iam monachi migrarent in illam, iussum est veterem ecclesiam, quam beatus oswaldus fecerat, detegi et subrui.] 6 Heming, Hemingi Chartularium Ecclesiae Wigorniensis, ed. T Hearne (Oxford: Sheldonian Theatre, 1723), entry for 20 May 1089. 7 Emma Waterton and Laurajane Smith, ‘There Is No Such Thing as Heritage’, Taking Archaeology Out of Heritage, ed. E. Waterton and L. Smith (Newcastle Upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars, 2009), 10; Emma Waterton and Steve Watson,

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Wulfstan of Worcester’s weeping 47 ‘Heritage as a Focus of Research:  Past, Present and New Directions’, The Palgrave Handbook of Contemporary Heritage Research (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 5. 8 Waterton and Watson, ‘Heritage as a Focus of Research’, 2. 9 Ibid. 10 Richard Gem, ‘Bishop Wulfstan and the Romanesque Cathedral Church of Worcester’, Medieval Art and Architecture at Worcester Cathedral: Transactions of the British Archaeology Association, ed. P.L. Everson (Leeds:  British Archaeological Association, 1978, Vol. I), 15. 11 Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester 1008–​1095,  104–​7. 12 Ibid., 115. 13 Wulfstan once appeared in an episcopal court clutching the Lives of Saints Dunstan and Oswald, ‘whose lifestyles he imitated just as he upheld their beliefs.’ Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester 1008–​1095, 112; William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, 25. 14 Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester 1008–​1095, 124, 205–​7. 15 Ibid., 120. 16 E.A. McIntyre, Early Twelfth Century Worcester Cathedral Priory with Special Reference to the Manuscripts Written There (Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Oxford, 1978), 92. 17 Elaine Treharne, ‘Bishops and Their Texts in the Later Eleventh Century: Worcester and Exeter’, Essays in Manuscript Geography:  Vernacular Manuscripts of the English West Midlands from the Conquest to the Sixteenth Century, ed. Wendy Scase (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), 13–​28; Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester 1008–​ 1095, 12, 196–​7, 230. 18 Antonia Gransden, ‘Cultural Transition at Worcester in the Anglo-​ Norman Period’, Medieval Art and Architecture at Worcester Cathedral: Transaction of the British Archaeology Association, ed. P.L. Everson (Leeds: British Archaeological Association, 1978, Vol. I), 1. 19 Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester 1008–​1095, 134. 20 Ibid., 229. 21 Gransden, ‘Cultural Transition at Worcester in the Anglo-​Norman Period’, 5. 22 See Kevin Crossley-​ Holland, ‘The Elegies’, The Anglo-​ Saxon World:  An Anthology, ed. Kevin Crossley-​Holland (Oxford; New  York:  Oxford World’s Classics, 1984), 46–​9. 23 Thomas D. Hill, ‘The Unchanging Hero: A Stoic Maxim in “The Wanderer” and Its Contexts’, Studies in Philology 101 (2004): 233–​49. 24 For further exploration of the concept of ‘transhistorical longing’, see Louise D’Arcens, ‘The Crimson Thread of Medievalism:  Haemetic Heritage and Transhistorical Mood in Colonial Australia’, this volume. 25 Tracey-​Anne Cooper, ‘The Shedding of Tears in Late Anglo-​Saxon England’, Crying in the Middle Ages, ed. Elina Gertsman (New York: Routledge, 2012), 175. 26 Cooper, ‘The Shedding of Tears in Late Anglo-​Saxon England’, 178. 27 Jonathan Wilcox, ‘A Place to Weep: Joseph in the Beer-​Room and Anglo-​Saxon Gestures of Emotion’, Saints and Scholars:  New Perspectives on Anglo-​Saxon Literature and Culture in Honour of Hugh Magennis, ed. Stuart McWilliams (Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2012), 14–​32.

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48  Jane-Héloïse Nancarrow 28 [Stabat ipse in cimiterio tacitus, et sub inde congemiscens. Scaturibat quippe in animo eius cogitatio; que ingentem imbrem lacrimarum ferens tandem erupit. ‘Quanto prestantior nobis sanctus Oswaldus, qui hanc fecit ecclesiam. Quot sancti viri religiosi in ea Deo servierunt’.] 29 See Barbara H. Rosenwein, ‘Emotion Words’, Le Sujet de lʹémotion au Moyen Âge, ed. Damien Boquet and Piroska Nagy (Paris: Beauchesne, 2009), 93–​106. 30 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 51:2 (2012): 196–​9. 31 From early in life, Wulfstan’s reputation as a holy man was cemented by his ministry to the poor in the office of baptism; it became a local attraction of sorts. Saxon churchmen of lower rank outside Wulfstan’s diocese also often sought his special permission to consecrate churches, and he had a reputation as a healer of people suffering from mental illness. Treharne, ‘Bishops and Their Texts in the Later Eleventh Century: Worcester and Exeter’, 23; Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester 1008–​1095, 177. 32 Hugh Magennis, ‘Monig oft gesæt: Some Images of Sitting in Old English Poetry’, Neophilologus 70 (1986): 450. 33 Mary Swan, ‘Marginal Activity? Post-​Conquest Old English Readers and their Notes’, Saints and Scholars:  New Perspectives on Anglo-​ Saxon Literature and Culture in Culture in Honour of Hugh Magennis, ed. Stuart McWilliams (Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2012), 224; Gem, ‘Bishop Wulfstan and the Romanesque Cathedral Church of Worcester’, 18. 34 Swan, ‘Marginal Activity? Post-​ Conquest Old English Readers and Their Notes’, 224. 35 Swan, ‘Marginal Activity? Post-​ Conquest Old English Readers and Their Notes’, 224. 36 A. Gransden, ‘Realistic Observation in Twelfth-​Century England’, Speculum 47 (1972): 31. 37 Cooper, ‘The Shedding of Tears in Late Anglo-​Saxon England’, 175. 38 Aelred of Rievaulx, The Mirror of Charity, trans. Elizabeth Connor (with C. Dumont, ed.) (Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications, 1990), I. 34; 147–​59. 39 John Sommerfeldt, ‘The roots of Aelred’s Spirituality:  Cosmology and Anthropology’, Cistercian Studies Quarterly 38:1 (2003): 24; Giles Constable, The Reformation of the Twelfth Century (New  York:  Cambridge University Press, 1996), 273. 40 Aelred of Rievaulx, The Mirror of Charity, I. 34; 159 [Ego te prosequar lacrimis meis, prosequar te qualibuscumque precibus meis prosquar te affectu meo]; Aelredi Rievallensis, De Speculum Caritatis, ed. A.  Hoste and C.H. Talbot (Turnhout: Brepols, 1971) I, 114. 41 Gransden, ‘Cultural Transition at Worcester in the Anglo-​Norman Period’, 1. 42 Gransden, ‘Cultural Transition at Worcester in the Anglo-​Norman Period’, 1. 43 William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, 52. 44 David Bates, The Normans and Empire (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2013); M. Chibnall. ‘The Later Twentieth Century: Empire and Colonisation’, The Debate on the Norman Conquest, ed. M.  Chibnall and R.C. Richardson (Manchester:  Manchester University Press, 1999), 115–​ 25; J.  Gillingham, ‘The Beginnings of English Imperialism’, The English in the Twelfth

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Wulfstan of Worcester’s weeping 49 Century: Imperialism, National Identity, and Political Values, ed. J. Gillingham (Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2000), 3–​18. 45 B. Trigger, ‘Monumental Architecture:  A Thermodynamic Explanation of Symbolic Behaviour’, World Archaeology 22 (1990): 119–​32 (127). 46 M.T. Clanchy, England and Its Rulers 1066–​1307, 3rd edn. (Oxford:  Wiley, 2006), 67. 47 Eric Fernie, The Architecture of Norman England (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2000), 27, 32. 48 Goscelin de St Bertin, Liber Confortatorius, ed. C.H. Talbot, Studii Ansemiana, fasc. xxxviii (Rome: Editrice Anselmiana, 1955), 93. 49 Goscelin de St Bertin, Historia Translationis Sancti Augustini Episcopoi, ed. Migne, Patrologia Latina, clv, col. 32.v. 50 [Autem et novam ecclesiam perfecit; nec facile invenias ornamentum, quod eam non decoravit. Ita erat in singulis mirabilis; et in omnibus singularis.] William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, 52. 51 Aleksandra McClain, ‘The Archaeology of Transition:  Rethinking Medieval Material Culture and Social Change’, The Art, Literature and Material Culture of the Medieval World: Transition, Transformation and Taxonomy, ed. M. Boulton, J. Hawkes and M. Herman (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2015), 40. 52 See L.A. Garner, ‘The French Chevron and Anglo-​Saxon Architectural Aesthetics’, Structuring Spaces: Oral Poetics and Architecture in Early Medieval England, ed. L.A. Garner (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2011), 192–​4. 53 George Zarnecki, ‘The Romanesque Capitals in the South Transept of Worcester Cathedral’, Medieval Art and Architecture at Worcester Cathedral: Transaction of the British Archaeology Association, ed. P.L. Everson (Leeds:  British Archaeological Association, 1978, Vol. I), 39–​41. 54 Richard John King, ‘Worcester Cathedral’, A Handbook to the Cathedrals of England: Western Division: Gloucester, Hereford, Worcester, Bristol, Lichfield, Worcester, ed. Richard John King (London: J. Murray, 1877), 19. 55 Zarnecki, ‘The Romanesque Capitals in the South Transept of Worcester Cathedral’, 41. 56 Ibid., 40; C.M. Kauffman, ‘Manuscript Illumination at Worcester in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries’, Medieval Art and Architecture at Worcester Cathedral: Transaction of the British Archaeology Association, ed. P.L. Everson (Leeds: British Archaeological Association, 1978, Vol. I), 45. 57 Gem, ‘Bishop Wulfstan and the Romanesque Cathedral Church of Worcester’, 33. 58 Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester 1008–​1095, 116–​17,  221–​4. 59 Neil Stratford, ‘Notes on the Norman Chapterhouse at Worcester’, Medieval Art and Architecture at Worcester Cathedral: Transaction of the British Archaeology Association, ed. P.L. Everson (Leeds: British Archaeological Association, 1978, Vol. I), 51–​70. 60 C. Brooke, ‘St Albans, the Great Abbey’, Cathedral and City: St Albans Ancient and Modern, ed. R. Runcie (London: Martyn Associates, 1977), 45. 61 E. Impey, The White Tower (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008), 45. 62 Stratford, ‘Notes on the Norman Chapterhouse at Worcester’, 63. 63 [Et licet astantes referrent non debere illum tristari, sed potius letari quem Deus ad hanc servasset gratiam; ut sic videret magnificari ecclesiam:  in lacrimarum proposito tenax fuit.] William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, 52.

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50  Jane-Héloïse Nancarrow 64 Lyn A. Blanchfield, ‘Prolegomenon: Considerations of Weeping and Sincerity in the Middle Ages’, Crying in the Middle Ages, ed. Elina Gertsman (New York: Routledge, 2012), xxi. 65 William A.  Christian, ‘Provoked Religious Weeping in Early Modern Spain’, Religious Organization and Religious Experience, ed. John Davis (London; New York: Academic Press, 1982), 97–​8. 66 Barbara Rosenwein, ‘Worrying about Emotions in History’, The American Historical Review 107:3 (2002): 842. 67 Lindsay Diggelmann, ‘The “Slime of Vice” and the “Passions of the Mind”: Emotional Histories in the Anglo-​Norman World’, Performing Emotions, ed. Joanne McEwan, Anne Scott and Philippa Maddern (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), pp. 107–131. 68 Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester 1008–​1095, 85; William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, 19. 69 Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester 1008–​ 1095, 103, 164, 121; William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, 46.

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3  John Hardyng’s Scotland Emotional geographies and forged heritage in the fifteenth century Alicia Marchant1

In 1457, Northumbrian knight John Hardyng employed a cartographer to create a map of Scotland for inclusion in his recently completed chronicle history of Britain. This bright, ornate map (constructed in ink and tempera on parchment) depicts Scotland as a vast landscape of lochs, rivers, estuaries and mountains, amongst which sit numerous heavy, strong structures: thick-​ walled castles, high-​ pointed towers and churches (Figure  3.1). It is an appealing landscape; prosperous and productive, the castles are strong and fortified and there are rich churches and good infrastructure with no sign of ruin or destruction. Numerous generic unnamed towers are dotted all over Scotland, while structures associated with specific places hold a likeness; Glasgow, for instance, is depicted by a church with a long and thin nave, while Dunfermline’s church is overtly cruciform. Stirling is represented by a three-​turreted castle with a bridge extending over the River Forth, and Edinburgh is noted for its multilayered stone fortifications.2 What Hardyng desired most through the creation of this cartographic image was to convince successive English kings (Henry V, Henry VI and Edward IV) to gather an army and invade the land that is charted. Hardyng’s map, then, was a visual aid to imagine ownership, and to direct the king as to how (and I quote from Hardyng’s chronicle) to ‘most easily conquer Scotland’ so that it would be ‘overcome and destroyed.’3 This map is an invasion plan that aimed at inciting and facilitating future action and the structuring and guiding of movement through this landscape. Immediately before the map, Hardyng provides a detailed narrative description of the places, such as the distance between towns, the location of bridges and river crossings, and safe havens for a naval fleet. These are places of value to an invading army. For instance, Hardyng narrates: Then shall you ride so west from Andreston, On the south side of the water Tay, Unto the town of St Johnstone In the north-​half of Fyfe, that fair is to stay, By many towns and have right ready way,

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newgenrtpdf

Figure 3.1 John Hardyng’s map of Scotland (1457). © The British Library Board, BL MS Lansdowne 204, fols. 226v–​227r.

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John Hardyng’s Scotland 53 Six and twenty miles of good country Full of cattle, corn and prosperity.4 (Lansdowne 204, f. 224r) The map’s practical application when paired with this narrative is apparent; it plotted the location of vital supplies like food (corn and cattle, for instance, which are assumed to be theirs for the taking), and provided a visual means through which to imagine efficient movement through the tricky terrain. This information is critical for a successful invasion. Hardyng suggests that the army should begin at Berwick-​ upon-​ Tweed, and head progressively further northwards in a sequence of Dunbar–​Edinburgh–​Stirling (over the bridge to)–​Faukland–​St Andrews–​Perth–​Dundee–​and finally Aberdeen. The route back south was to be much simpler, along the west coast to Glasgow and down to Dumfries. Thus, the orientation of Hardyng’s map, which has west at the top and the north of Scotland on the right-​hand side, is noteworthy in its unique alignment; Medieval maps were oriented with east at the top due to the important place of the Holy Land in Christian history.5 However, it also means that Hardyng’s suggested first movement of the invading army flows from left to right, and thus mimics the reading of the words on the page. Far from straightforward, this map displays a complex cultural and natural heritage landscape that is imbued with English colonialism, focalised through the eyes of its creator. Scotland deeply concerned John Hardyng and had concerned him for much of his life. In his chronicle narrative, Hardyng tells us that he had fought in frequent violent skirmishes with Scottish raiding parties from the tender age of 12, and saw battle as a young man against Scottish forces at Homildon Hill (1402) and the Siege of Coklaw Castle (1403) while in the service of the powerful Percy family of Northumbria.6 Hardyng’s early life experiences and memories of trauma undoubted coloured his perception of war and of the Scots, whom he portrays in his chronicle history as an unruly and disorderly people.7 Certainly, Hardyng appears to have been obsessed by the notion of taking back Scotland, and so, according to Hardyng, he spent ‘three year and a half amongst the enemy’8 gathering evidence and information on the Scottish landscape and terrain. Critically, any future offensive into Scotland, which the map and chronicle text together sought to facilitate, would be very much reliant upon intricate networks of knowledge concerning Anglo-​Scottish heritage. The map needed, therefore, to incorporate the past as well as the present, the historic and the contemporary, to construct a visual portrayal of a land that could be known and therefore unsurprising to an invading army. And so, the Scottish terrain is mapped and measured, surveyed and documented so that the king may ‘know the space from every town to town.’9 This cartographic image, then, embeds and reflects a personal and a collective geographical imagining of Scotland, and projects a complicated temporality; it is a communication

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54  Alicia Marchant of power, authority, ownership and empire, both as it currently stands and in its future, desired projection.

Hardyng: inheritance, ancestry and heritage John Hardyng’s works offer numerous examples through which to examine the multidimensional understandings of heritage in fifteenth-​century Britain; heritage is a subject he overtly discusses, and which forms the basis of his argument for the king’s re-​taking of Scotland, establishing that this is the king’s by right. While the map geographically projects English connections to this land, the accompanying chronicle text articulates in narrative form English connections to the people who inhabit this land. Hardyng goes to great lengths to document the ancient ancestral connection between England and Scotland and, critically, to demonstrate the English king’s right of sovereignty and overlordship over the Scottish king and kingdom. The chronicle, which exists in only a single copy held at the British Library at Lansdowne 204 and compiled between 1440 and 1457, is comprised of 2674 stanzas written in rhyme-​royal that explores the history of Britain from its mythical foundation up to Hardyng’s own day.10 Hardyng provides a detailed account of Brutus’ slaying of the giants who inhabited the lands11 and then his settlement and foundation of Britain: As chronicle say and make notification Who look them well shall know and understand Of what kin blood and generation Brutus first came, that conquered all this land.12 (Lansdowne 204, f. 8v) The founding of Britain by Brutus provides a critical underpinning; Brutus subdues and then settles Britain, which is later divided between his three sons, Locrinus (who took England), Albanactus (Scotland) and Camber (Wales). Hardyng also makes it clear that both Albanactus and Camber should be subservient to Locryne because of birth order; Locryne was the first-​born son, and therefore the English king has right of sovereignty over Scotland and also Wales. Hardyng narrates of Scotland and Wales that: … of Locryne they should always give homage and of his heirs evermore in heritage.13 (Lansdowne 204 f. 17r) The common origin of the people of Britain puts forward the notion that the three nations of England, Scotland and Wales were ultimately derived from the same individual and shared a common bloodline, despite current

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John Hardyng’s Scotland 55 differences in their customs, languages and laws.14 This common ancestry was politically a very useful tool for Hardyng, as the story positioned both the Scots and the Welsh as simultaneously ‘other’ and ‘ours’ to England. Indeed, so important is it that Hardyng frames his entire chronicle, map and invasion plan with the Brutus narrative. In his conclusion, which occurs a few pages after his map, Hardyng reminds the king that Britain consists of three parts, of which ‘two parts to you obey’ (England and Wales), and that the third, Scotland, ‘thus disobey.’15 The Brutus narrative also emphasised the historical role of the English king as the leader of the British Isles, and Hardyng’s map, invasion plan and chronicle was a survey of the king’s ancestral lands, domain and heritage that are linked together through fealty.16 Hardyng tells the king in his preface that: O sovereign lord, be it to your pleasure, This book to take of my simplicity Thus newly made for remembrance, Which no man hath in world but only you; Which I compiled unto your royalty And to the queen’s heart’s consolation To know the state of your dominions.17 (Lansdowne 204, dedication f. 2v) Harydng provides an assessment of the state of the kingdom, an examination of the English king’s heritage, his ancestral lands and rights of homage, displaying his findings in both cartographic and narrative forms. The heritage is both material, physical, a landscape and place (and can be measured, distanced and valued in terms of productivity), and also intangible, like the imagined community of people who owe fealty to the king, or those who should but do not.18 Hardyng’s use of the term ‘heritage’ here to describe Locryne’s homage is important, and indeed it is one of many times he uses the word to denote the generational passing-​down of homage and its related practices, and of land and ownership. In Lansdowne 204, the term heritage is used on multiple occasions to describe how the wealthy land-​owning families in the north of England, including the Percy, Umfraville and Beaumont families –​who due to Scottish incursions, truces and alliances in the fourteenth-​century Wars of Independence –​suffered from ‘heritage … lost.’19 Hardyng also uses the term to refer to his desired future inheritance and wealth, which had been promised to him by Henry V on the completion of his spying in Scotland. Hardyng writes: Six years ago now I pursued to your grace; …

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56  Alicia Marchant You granted me to have perpetually The manor of Geddington truly To me and to mine heirs in heritage, With members whole and all advantage.20 (Lansdowne 204, f. 4r) Hardyng’s understanding of heritage revolves around notions of blood and land, of inheritance between generations and places associated with that inheritance. It is of significance that, in referring to his own much-​hoped-​for estate and income, Hardyng also uses the term ‘perpetually’ and confirms that he means for it to go ‘to me and to mine heirs.’ These acknowledgements of time and duration are meant to reinforce and solidify his claims, but also point to an understanding of heritage as a process. As David C.  Harvey suggests, ‘heritage itself is not a thing and does not exist by itself –​nor does it imply a movement or a project. Rather, heritage is about the process by which people use the past.’21 Here, then, Hardyng suggests that ‘heritage’ refers not only to the things and possessions like property or land that were bequeathed, but also the practices and traditions that dictate the manner of the material passed down and the method of its passing  –​indeed, as Hardyng points out, the ceasing of this inherited practice through Scottish incursions into the north of England, and the resultant loss of the ability to practise heritage and to pass on that land of heritage.

Monumental expectations and fake heritage Underlying the complex depictions of Scotland’s intertwined heritage with England is Hardyng himself; in many ways, Hardyng’s work was the product of a personal (although arguably one-​sided) relationship between himself and the kings of England. According to Hardyng, it was a relationship instigated by Henry V around the year 1418–​1420, when the king suggested that Harydng go into Scotland as a spy to collect evidence of Scotland’s subservience, and ‘to seek his right there of his sovereignty.’22 The mode of narration Hardyng employs reflects this relationship, with personal invocations to the king scattered throughout the text. Likewise, Hardyng refers to himself in the first person frequently. For instance, Hardyng tells us that: This book with heart and lowly obedience I present now with all goodwill To be evermore within your governance For sovereignty and your inheritance Of Scotland whole, which should your rule obey As sovereign lord, from which they proudly stray.23 (Lansdowne 204, dedication f. 2v)

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John Hardyng’s Scotland 57 Hardyng’s descriptions of Scotland are comprehensive, particularly in comparison to other travellers of his era.24 His overarching historical purpose was to provide a national history of Britain from its founding, and to provide a survey of the state of the dominions (as he tells the king), but this is focalised through Hardying himself; he repeats often, ‘I have seen and know,’25 and so provides authority to his narrative and its contents. Hardyng’s memories, his travels and experiences of place in Scotland shape the narrative, as does his desire to please the English king and so be rewarded for his efforts. And so it was in 1457 that Hardyng himself placed his book  –​which contained his chronicle narrative and the map –​into the hands of the English king, Henry VI, to whom the work is dedicated. This direct and personal encounter with the king of England was one of several that Hardyng experienced during his lifetime; it is known that between 1422 and 1463 Hardyng personally handed over bundles of documents, including charters, letters patent and letters of safe conduct from the king of Scotland. A total of 20 documents were handed over on at least four occasions to successive English kings –​to Henry V in 1422 in France, Henry VI in 1440 and 1457 (notably along with his chronicle and map) and to Edward IV in 1463.26 These documents illustrate, in a variety of ways, the Scottish king’s submission to the English king as an overlord. The date range of these documents is impressive  –​most fall within the period 1330–​ 1371.27 However, the earliest one is supposedly from the eleventh century and is a charter from the Scottish king, Malcolm III, and his son Edward, which clearly states that the Scottish kings hold their lands from the English king Edward the Confessor just as their ancestors had done. Hardyng supposedly retrieved these documents from family archives and holdings around Scotland. The most startling thing about Hardyng’s collection of official documentation is that the vast majority of documents were forged; 17 of the 20 documents have survived, and 14 of these are forgeries, many complete with forged wax seals.28 It was not until 1837, through the analysis of the Keeper of the Public Records, Sir Francis Palgrave, that the documents were officially reclassified as fake. Palgrave, who published his findings, states that their forgery was ‘quite apparent’: ‘the language, the expressions, the dates, the general tenor –​all bespeak the forgery.’29 Palgrave’s examination showed that 8 of the 11 documents held in his archive were written in the same hand, although they were apparently scribed years apart. He also noted that the seal of the charter of Malcolm III contained incorrect armorial bearings.30 Although it is not known who was responsible for these forgeries, Harydng himself is a prime suspect.31 These forgeries are currently held within the National Archives, London, and also at Durham and Oxford. It is not known whether these documents’ provenance was in doubt prior to this; certainly, Harydng was never in any formal trouble, but a dubious cloud hanging over him and his works goes some way to accounting for Hardyng’s lack of reward and his continued campaign targeting Scotland and the king. His promised reward, Hardyng notes, of an income of 40 pounds per annum

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58  Alicia Marchant from Geddington Manor in Northamptionshire, was, to Hardyng’s great frustration, never realised.

Hardyng, Scotland and emotional geography Not unexpectedly, given that the king of England was his intended reader, the contents of Hardyng’s invasion plan and map reflect notions of colonisation and English overlordship; it is a one-​sided and one-​way flow of information, one that meant to expand, reclaim and reconfirm empire, to confirm a common ancestry and land. Hardyng’s topographical survey presents a description of a land that is prosperous; it is overall an overwhelmingly positive picture of both land and sea. The Carse of Gowrie (between Perth and Dundee) is described as having the ‘best cornland of all Scotland,’32 and the town of Brigham has ‘great riches.’33 Harydng describes a variety of places were a naval fleet can anchor ‘safely,’34 such as at Leigh, while Edinburgh is beseiged. Hardyng uses the term ‘good’ a total of eight times in his invasion narrative to refer to ‘good country,’ ‘good merchant towns’35 or roadways that are a ‘good way and fair.’36 Sometimes the value of the ‘good’ is expanded upon, such as the aforementioned reference by Hardyng to ‘good country, full of cattle, corn and prosperity.’ Such a positive overlaying of value upon Scotland’s land emphasises the attractiveness of this region. Indeed, there are only two places in Scotland that Hardyng states might pose difficulties. The first is the castle of Dumbarton, due to its stone fortifications, but even here Hardyng states that it is possible to use starvation as a strategy.37 The other group of locations lie in the very far north of Scotland, in places like Ross, Caithness and the outer isles, where, he states ‘wild Scots dwell in the hills,’38 but Hardyng glosses over their possible threat, which can be taken as a sign of confidence in their defeat. Notably absent are accounts of the impact of the tough natural terrain; the mountains that weave through Scotland are downplayed, and lochs and estuaries are minimally represented, and commented upon only to provide safe havens and point out best places for their crossing. The wild North Sea is noted as an opportunity for the navy to bring provisions to a land army. What are also missing from Hardyng’s invasion narrative and map are the people who have created this prosperity; there is no direct mention of them in any individual sense. Hardyng does refer to the aforementioned ‘wild Scots’ but his main narrative strategy is to refer to the imagined collective community of Scotland as ‘theirs’ (i.e. not ‘ours’). For instance, Hardyng’s description of Scone includes states that: From Scone, where all their kings crowned been, And have been always of old, as has been seen.39 (Lansdowne 204, 224v)

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John Hardyng’s Scotland 59 Significantly, Scone is depicted on the map as a barely visible, small chapel unfortunately (perhaps not purposefully) located within the creases of the bound map. A viewer could certainly be forgiven for missing the tremendous importance of Scone for the Scots; it was here at Scone, on Moot Hill, that according to ancient practices the Scottish kings were placed on the Stone of Scone (or the Stone of Destiny) and anointed according to tradition. However, in the context of an invasion narrative, such a reference merely reiterates the English king’s overlordship of Scotland and indeed provides reference to a past, very successful invasion of Scotland by an English king. In 1296, Edward I  took a significant detour from this invasion route to steal the Stone of Scone, taking it back to Westminster Abbey, where it is to this day still a key feature of British coronations.40 However, inaugurations continued at Scone in spite of the Stone of Scone’s absence; James I  had been inaugurated at Scone in May 1424, which was in Harydng’s own day; however, the manner in which the Scottish monarchs were anointed was significantly altered.41 The invasion narrative does not give much of a sense that Scotland had its own monarchs –​the house of Stuart ruled in succession from 1371 to 1513 –​who would no doubt put up an impressive fight. Hardyng’s map of Scotland locates and orients a heritage landscape, and projects an emotional geography, one that is imagined by Hardyng and shaped on his interpretation of what the king would want to know. And so the landscape is far from alienating and strange, but rather is inviting. The descriptions of places as ‘good’ and ‘fair’ and ‘yours’ layer the landscape with a framework of belonging and ownership. Harydng ensures that the narrative frames the landscape as embedded with commonality and bloodlines of ownership and practices of ancestry and inheritance. Harydng’s relationship to the Lancastrian king Henry VI was, however, unsettled by a change in dynastic family during an era commonly known as the Wars of the Roses. The king who formed so central a role in Hardyng’s vision for Scotland’s future was replaced by a new king, Edward IV, and indeed a new house: the House of York. Hardyng’s narrative in Lansdowne 204 was naturally pro-​Lancastrian, and so with due haste the now 80-​plus-​ year-​old chronicler set about writing a revised version based on the older one, but with more favourable depictions of the House of York. This time Hardyng dedicated his work to Richard, the duke of York, and then his son Edward IV on the Duke’s premature death at the Battle of Wakefield in 1460.42 This version remained unfinished on Hardyng’s death, at the age of 86, in 1464, and today exists in a total of 16 surviving manuscripts –​of which Bodleian Library MS Arch. Selden is one and British Library Harley MS 661 is another. This version of the chronicle is shorter (1771 stanzas as opposed to the 2674 of the first), but it was to have more of an afterlife, as it was published twice in 1543 by Richard Grafton, with the addition of a prose continuation up to the year of publication.43

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Figure 3.2 John Hardyng’s map of Scotland from the second version of the chronicle; first of three pages mapping Carlisle to the Tay. © The British Library Board, BL MS Harley 661, fol. 187r.

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John Hardyng’s Scotland 61 In the second version, Hardyng’s narrative of the founding of Britain by Brutus and its subsequent division amongst his sons are not significantly revised, but there are important differences in the accompanying map of Scotland, which is now split over three pages.44 While in the first version the land is presented as attractive and worthy of the king’s attention, in the second version many of the beautiful, symbolic stone representations have gone. The first section presents the Scottish Lowlands, with Carlyle and Edinburgh (shown as Figure 3.2). The second is a quite detailed description in a roughly schematic layout of the various places that are best for supplies to refresh the army. The final page is the most surprising; to the far north of Scotland appears a large castle, representing (according to Hardyng) ‘the palais of Pluto, king of Hel, neighbore to Scottz.’ The castle is surrounded by four of the rivers from the classical underworld, the Greek names of which Hardyng glosses with some telling additions. Two of these rivers are translated correctly: the Styx (which Hardyng labels on his map in Latin as ‘hatred without rest’) and ‘Cochiton’ (‘perpetual lamentation’). Two others, however, give the correct meaning but expand to suit Hardyng’s own purposes; ‘Aceron’ becomes not just the river of ‘pain’ but ‘pain and deceit,’ and ‘Flagiton’ similarly is not simply the fiery river, but the ‘fiery war amongst themselves.’ The first parts of both of these glosses makes clear that Hardyng did know the correct meanings of these Greek names, but his additions emphasise the deceitful and internal division of the Scots, and so implicitly support Hardyng’s case for invasion. Relatedly, the image of Pluto’s palace is a paradoxical one of death and riches; Pluto, one of the names of the gods of the underworld, also evokes wealth, again through his Greek etymology. This image then is a reminder of Scotland as a land of prosperity, but also as the neighbour of Hell. The Scots may be feisty, rebellious and deceitful, but these qualities and their internal feuds are also to the English king’s advantage.

Hardyng’s accumulations of heritage While they are important articulations of colonialism and national narratives, these materials were produced through, and are reflective of, personal, emotional and intimate social relationships. The maps and accompanying narrative are imbued with Hardyng’s personal memories of place, and articulate a complex personal relationship with successive kings. In many ways, then, this case study offers the opportunity to consider how an individual negotiated the nexus between the national sphere and the private sphere; personal meetings and dialogues between Hardyng and English kings and their transactions of material evidence all speak to Hardyng as an involved, embodied and emotional being. Hardyng accumulates, researches, preserves, documents, creates, revises and presents his materials (like parchment, seals); he develops the concepts of coloniation, fealty and kingship embedded and expressed within them. Moreover, Hardyng himself,

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62  Alicia Marchant as an embodied and emotional being, provides evidence for his endeavours and authority for his narratives. Hardyng narrates that he suffers from continued physical and emotional discomfort: For my labour amongst his enemies And costs great, with sore corporal maim Which I may never recover, nor reclaim.45 (Lansdowne 204, f. 222v) Hardyng’s body and emotion were an integral part of his emotional plea to successive kings to reward him for the difficult and dangerous work that he had already undertaken; his lack of reward prolongs and exacerbates his discomfort. Certainly, as others have suggested, Scotland became increasingly entwined with Harydng’s sense of self and his expectation of financial support.46 Hardyng’s forgeries are a case in point here; their creation, complete with forged signs of their authenticity in the seals, was an audacious act. However, the act of personally handing these forged documents to successive kings of England is another level of audacity altogether. While no doubt symptomatic of Hardyng’s desperation, these forgeries also speak to Hardyng’s abilities to shape and manipulate heritage to suit his purposes. Alfred Haitt sees parallels between Hardyng’s need to map the lands that he desired the king to acquire and his need to forge these official documents; Haitt argues that ‘the map is the practical outcome, a kind of enactment, of the forgeries’ assertion of right to land.’47 In this regard, then, Hardyng’s actions and enactments, his toils and resultant physical discomfort, all speak to the processes of heritage, and to heritage as formed in the complex nexus between the body, material cultures, practices and emotions. As material objects, Hardyng’s manuscript, his map and forgeries, have an attached framework of value and affect; while the first version of his chronicle was not tremendously popular, the second version was, thanks largely to its printing in 1543 by Richard Grafton.48 It was in this form that Hardyng had an influence on later historical works of England, such as Raphael Holinshed, and indeed on Shakespeare,49 although certainly Hardyng’s unique poetic inability drove one writer in the seventeenth century to declare his work ‘the most impotent of our metrical chronicles.’50 Regardless, Hardyng’s accumulation of material culture as evidence and his forging efforts demonstrate an understanding of the enduring material form of the documents. Hardyng plainly understood that material objects and the ideas and concepts embedded within them had the ability to convince and to have effects and affects both in his contemporary world and in the future. Certainly, his future projections demonstrate the temporality involved in the processes of heritage; Hardyng intended his work to have affective power in the future. His collection of documents (chronicle, map, invasion plan and official documentation) was meant to be taken as a bundle, where each component could work to validate the others in terms of authority, and together

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John Hardyng’s Scotland 63 was meant to convince the king of England to reward the man responsible for their accumulation. Perhaps the most striking purpose driving Harydng revolves around war; this accumulation was meant to incite war and bloodshed. It was meant to move an army to overtake the place represented on the map.

Conclusions The life work of Hardyng constitutes an intriguing and illustrative episode in the history of heritage. Though for him the word itself, ‘heritage,’ refers primarily to the legal inheritance of property and land, it already includes as well the idea of less-​tangible sorts of inheritance:  of practices, ideas, ways of life. He consciously attempted to use and manipulate the heritage of England, Scotland and Wales to his own ends, both personal and political, arguing for his own enrichment and the invasion of Scotland. The heritage strategy, so to speak, which he employed to achieve these ends was a complex one; his maps demonstrate the importance of land as an expression of blood relationships, and the ways in which the practical business of invasion must be articulated through a landscape composed by historical processes as much as geography. The maps are emotional and emotive projections that constructed a selective view of the past and implied the nature of desirable future actions. His arguments by genealogy, by blood, were as ever with such arguments tendentious, and in a subtler way so too were the partly accurate, partly bogus etymologies of the rivers of Hell in his curious final map. Hardyng’s attempts at persuasion by heritage were doomed to fail, yet their afterlife brought a different kind of success to the one he had envisioned. His chronicle became a source for later antiquaries and historians, albeit one which in contemporary scholarship has received more attention as a source for subsequent writers than in its own right. Its use by Shakespeare as a source for his history plays has also meant that Hardyng’s versions of historical characters like Hotspur has exerted an influence independently of Hardyng’s name. The chronicler’s manipulations of heritage, and the capacious package of written and visual texts in which he expressed them, have themselves become part of a national heritage, largely effacing their own nature as an engagement in persuasion by heritage.

Notes 1 This research was conducted by the Australian Research Council Centre of Excellence for the History of Emotions (Project Number CE110001011). 2 For further discussion of Hardyng’s maps and geography, see Alfred Hiatt, ‘Beyond a Border: The Maps of Scotland in John Hardyng’s Chronicle’, The Lancastrian Court: Proceedings of the 2001 Harlaxton Symposium, ed. J. Stratford (Donington,

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64  Alicia Marchant 2003), 78–​94; Meg Roland, ‘The Rudderless Boat:  Fluid Time and Passionate Geography in (Hardyng’s) Chronicle and (Malory’s) Romance’, Arthuriana 22:4 (2012): 77–​93. 3 [moste esily conquere Scotlonde.] Lansdowne 204, f.  223v; [hostayed and destroyed.] Lansdowne 204, f. 223r. 4 [Than shall ye ryde so weste from Andreston, /​On southe side so of the water of Tay, /​Vpto the toun of Seynt Johnston, /​On northalf Fyfe, that fayr is to hostay /​By many touns and haue right redy way /​Sex and twenty myles of gode cuntre /​Full of catell come and prosperite.] 5 E. Edson, Mapping Time and Space: How Medieval Mapmakers Viewed Their World (London: British Library, 1997). 6 Hardyng himself states, in a prose addition to MS Arch. Selden B.10 fol. 192r: ‘Truly I, the maker of this boke, was brought vp fro XII yere age in Sir Henry Percy hous to the bateile of Shrowesbury, that I  was there with hym armed of xxvti yere age, as I had afore at Homyldon, Coklaw, and diuers rodes.’ Sarah L. Peverley, ‘John Hardyng’s Chronicle: A Study of the Two Versions and a Critical Edition of Both for the Period 1327–​1464’, unpublished PhD thesis, University of Hull, 2004, 579. 7 Hardyng narrates episodes on the trauma of war between the Scots and the English in Landsowne 204, fols 171v, 179v, 181r. See Alastair J.  MacDonald, ‘John Hardyng, Northumbrian Identity and the Scots’, North-​East England in the Later Middle Ages, ed. C.D. Liddy and R.H. Britnell (Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2005), 33. 8 [thre yere and halfe amonge the enmyte.] Lansdowne 204, f. 3r. 9 [To know the space from euery toun to ton.] Lansdowne 204, f. 223v. 10 Sarah L. Peverley, ‘Hardyng, John’, Encyclopedia of the Medieval Chronicle, ed. R.G. Dunphy (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 751. 11 [that slew thise geantz straunge /​And wan this londe by his magnificence, /​In whiche he dwelte longe tyme in excellence.] Lansdowne 204, f. 16r. For a full discussion of notions of genealogy in the second version of Hardyng’s chronicle, see Sarah L. Peverley, ‘Genealogy and John Hardyng’s Verse Chronicle’, Broken Lines:  Genealogical Literature in Medieval Britain and France, ed. Raluca L. Radulescu and Edward Donald Kennedy (Turnhout: Brepols, 2008), 259–​82. 12 [As cronycles say and make notificacioun, /​Who loke thaym wele schal know and vndirstonde /​Of wat-​kyns blode and generacioun /​Brutus first came, that conquerde alle this londe.] 13 [And o[f]‌Locryne it should euer be homage, /​And of his heyres euermore in heritage.] 14 For further discussion of the concept of national identity in the fifteenth century and Brutus mythology, see Alicia Marchant, The Revolt of Owain Glyndŵr in Medieval English Chronicles (Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2014), 161ff. 15 [Of whiche Bretayne, two partes to yow obey, /​Englond and Wales as to thaire soueraynte, /​Which oweth thynke be shame to se thus disobey /​Scotland, that is the thryd parte of Bretayne.] Lansdowne 204 f. 230v. 16 Laurie A.  Finke and Martin B.  Shichtman, ‘Mapping Ambition:  Imperialism, Nationalism, and the Logic of Seriality in the Chronicle of John Hardyng’, King Arthur and the Myth of History (Gainesville, FL:  University of Florida, 2004), 140.

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John Hardyng’s Scotland 65 17 [O souerayne lord, be it to Ȝoure pleasance /​This book to take of my symplicite, /​Thus newly made for rememorance, /​Whiche no man hath in worlde bot oonly Ȝe; /​Whiche I compiled vnto Ȝoure rialte, /​And to the quenes hertes consolacioun /​To know the state of Ȝoure domynacioun.] 18 Sarah L. Peverley, ‘Dynasty and Division: The Depiction of King and Kingdom in John Hardyng’s Chronicle’, The Medieval Chronicle III: Proceedings of the 3rd International Conference on the Medieval Chronicle Doorn/​Utrecht 12–​17 July 2002, ed. E. Kooper (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2004), 161–​2. 19 [At whose requeste the kynge graunte hym an hoste /​Of Englisshe men on his rebels to ryde, /​Of thaym that had thair heritage so loste /​Within his reme, and myght noght on hym byde. /​The Vmframvyle and Bewmont with grete pride, /​The Percy eke, and Nevyle at thair myght, /​The Lucy als, with many mo full right.] Lansdowne 204, f. 188v. 20 [Sex yere now go I  pursewed to Ȝoure grace; /​And vndirnethe Ȝoure lettres secretary, /​And pryuy seel that longeth in that cace, /​Ȝe graunted me to haue perpetualy /​The manere hool of Gedyngtoun treuly /​To me and to myne hayres in heritage, /​With membres hool and other all auauntage.] 21 Harvey, ‘The History of Heritage’, 1. 22 Lansdowne, 204, Prologue f. 3r. 23 [This book with hert and lowly obeishance /​I present now with al benygnyte /​To been eueremore within Ȝoure gouernance, /​For soueraynte and Ȝoure inherytance /​Of Scotland hool, whiche shuld Ȝour reule obaye /​As souereyn lorde, fro whiche thay prowdly straye.] 24 Peter Hume Brown, Early Travellers in Scotland (Edinburgh:  David Douglas, 1891), 16. 25 [I haue sene and knowe.] Lansdowne, 204, f. 224v. 26 Alfred Hiatt, ‘The Forgeries of John Hardyng: The Evidence of Oxford, Bodleian MS Ashmole 789’, Notes and Queries 46:1 (1999): 7. 27 Alfred Hiatt, The Making of Medieval Forgeries: False Documents in Fifteenth-​ Century England (London: The British Library, 2004), 103. 28 Alfred Hiatt, ‘The Forgeries of John Hardyng’, 7–​ 12; Antonia Gransden, Historical Writing in England, II:  c.1307 to the Early Sixteenth Century (London: Routledge, 1982), 275; Hiatt, The Making of Medieval Forgeries, 103. 29 Francis Palgrave, Documents and Records Illustrating the History of Scotland (London: Public Records Office, 1837), ccxvi. 30 Palgrave, Documents and Records, ccxvi. 31 Ibid., ccxiv. 32 [beste cornelonde of all Scotlonde.] Lansdowne, 204, f. 224v. 33 [Bryghyn is a towne of grete rychesse.] Lansdowne, 204, f. 225r. 34 Lansdowne, 204, f. 223v. 35 [gode marchaunt towns.] Lansdowne, 204, f. 224v. 36 [gode way and fayre.] Lansdowne, 204, f. 224r; [gode cuntre]; [gode cuntre /​Full of catell come and prosperite.] Lansdowne, 204, f. 224r. 37 Lansdowne, 204, f. 225r. 38 [Whare youre nauy also than may yow mete, /​To vytayle with your hoste, whare so ye go /​At ouer the munthes, vngrayth and full vnmete, /​Whar wylde Scottes in hilles bene wonnyng so, /​In Marre and eke in Garriogh also, /​In Ros, Athels, Lenenay, and Cattenesse, /​And in Murrefe, and all Oute Iles I gesse. /​How Ȝe shall hostay homewarde.] Lansdowne, 204, f. 225r.

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66  Alicia Marchant 39 [From Skone, wham all thayre kynges corounde bene /​And haue bene ay of olde, as hath bene sene.] 40 Although since 1996 the Stone of Scone has resided at Edinburgh Castle. 41 Alicia Marchant, ‘Romancing the Stone:  (E)motion and the Affective History of the Stone of Scone’, Feeling Things: Objects and Emotions through History, ed. Sarah Randles, Stephanie Downes and Sally Holloway (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2018), 192–​208. 42 E.D. Kennedy, A Manual of the Writings in Middle English, 1050–​1500, Volume 8:  Chronicles and Other Historical Writings, ed. A.  Hartung (New Haven, CT: Archon, 1989), 2647. 43 Felicity Riddy, ‘John Hardyng’s Chronicle and the Wars of the Roses’, Arthurian Literature XII, ed. J.P. Carley and F. Riddy (Cambridge: Boydell Press, 1993), 91–​108. 44 For instance, Hardyng states in the second version of his chronicle that: ‘This kyng Brutus this ysle deuided in. iii /​A  lytell afore out of this ysle he dyed:  /​ To his thre sonnes yt were full faire to se /​After his dayes to ioyse he signified, /​And when he had the Isle all tripertyed, /​He called the chyefe Logres after Locryne, /​That doth extende fro Monsehole to Hūber fine.’ The Chronicle of John Hardyng, ed. Henry Ellis, 42–​3. For a further discussion, see Peverley, ‘Introduction’, John Hardyng,  163–​4. 45 [For my laboure amonges his enmyse, /​And costage grete, with sore corporall mayme, /​Whiche I may neuer recouer, ne reclayme.] 46 See, for instance, C.L. Kingsford, ‘The First Version of Hardyng’s Chronicle’, English Historical Review 27 (1912): 462–​82. 47 Haitt, The Making of Medieval Forgeries, 103. 48 Peverley, ‘Anglo-​Scottish Relations’, 70. 49 Alicia Marchant, ‘Cosmos and History:  Shakespeare’s Representation of Nature and Rebellion in Henry IV Part One’, Renaissance Drama and Poetry in Context: Essays for Christopher Wortham, ed. Andrew Lynch and Anne Scott (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars, 2008), 41–​61. 50 Thomas Warton, History of English Poetry, 4 vols (London: n.p., 1774–​1790), III, 124.

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4  Sacred memory The Elizabethan monuments of Westminster Abbey Peter Sherlock

Washington Irving, in his famous account of a visit to Westminster Abbey, first published in 1820, writes: The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power; here it was literally but a step from the throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think that these incongruous mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness? (Irving, 2013, 77) Having marvelled at Poet’s Corner and reflected before their monuments on the characters of Queen Elizabeth and her rival Mary Stuart, Irving comes at last on the shrine of the Confessor, where he contemplates worldly vanity. As he records the sentiments evoked by the Abbey and its monuments, he regulates the emotions appropriate to remembering the dead, insisting that the grave ‘is the place not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation.’ The Abbey’s tombs and their emotional impact were indeed the product of ‘theatrical artifice.’ Each generation of monarchs, abbots and deans had contrived its own additions to the Abbey’s landscape of monuments, not only building up layers of heritage but also disturbing, violating and reinterpreting those laid down by earlier ages. Each generation attempted to prompt an emotional response from the visitor, ranging from devotion, wonder, grief and piety to admiration, pride and imitation. Such responses served many ends, from the propagation of true religion or reflection on mortality to the legitimation of authority and the transmission of national identity. This essay is a study of the monuments erected at Westminster Abbey in the half-​century from 1556 to 1606, of their creation and their effect. I argue that this was the most critical period in the Abbey’s evolution as a heritage site, during which it was transformed from a royal cemetery and saint’s shrine into a national mausoleum packed with monuments. I track

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68  Peter Sherlock the building of monuments by the Elizabethans at the Abbey in the wake of the Reformation, and then explore the emotions expressed through the tombs and their visitors in a period when pilgrims were replaced by tourists. This chapter thereby reveals the historical processes through which a heritage site was created and cultural significance attributed to that heritage.

Shaping a monumental heritage Westminster Abbey is one of the world’s great heritage sites. Its fame stems from its deep association with the coronations and burials of the English and British monarchs for almost 1000 years. Over a million tourists visit the Abbey each year and encounter its astonishing collection of more than 600 monuments. Understanding heritage at Westminster is complex, for the site is a web of spiritual, liturgical, political and commercial interests. Richard Jenkyns nominates the Abbey as ‘the first cemetery of the world’ for ‘more of the great—​whether measured by rank, office or genius—​have been buried here, across a longer period, than anywhere else.’ Moreover, he continues, it is a site of emotions and heritage: ‘[m]‌elancholy, neglect, gloom and the transience of earthly things were recurrent themes in accounts of the Abbey, until the Victorians made it a busier place and the twentieth century cleaned it.’1 The meaning of heritage at Westminster, and emotional responses to it, have changed constantly as a result of deliberate interventions by sovereigns, clergy, politicians and antiquaries. From the mid-​thirteenth century, the Abbey was literally reconstructed as a building focussed on monumental commemoration.2 The church was rebuilt by Henry III, who provided a new shrine for his eleventh-​century ancestor Edward the Confessor, saint and king. The Confessor’s shrine has been the heart of the Abbey, spiritually and physically, ever since. For centuries pilgrims and tourists have visited it with awe and longing, in search of works of wonder, participating in theories and mythologies of peace, just war and the divine right of kings.3 Since Henry III was himself buried near his sainted progenitor in 1272, the tombs and monuments of his royal descendants have clustered around the shrine, accompanied at a distance by courtiers and servants, as well as leading members of the monastic community at Westminster. Besides the royal tombs, the Abbey’s collection of monuments includes memorials to poets from Chaucer to Wilde, and monuments to political, military, scientific, artistic and philanthropic leaders such as Newton, Wolfe, Wilberforce and Darwin. The Abbey and its tombs survived the dissolution of the monasteries in the sixteenth century, the overthrow of monarchy in the seventeenth and even nineteenth-​century proposals to remove all of the memorials. In 1920 the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior was created, the first such tomb in the world, reasserting the Abbey’s central place in national commemoration. Today monuments continue to be erected by the Dean and Chapter, responding to interest groups, national and international events

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The Elizabethan monuments of Westminster Abbey 69 and the public hunger for the memory of cultural and political heroes, both past and present. How and when did the Abbey come to be so associated with its monuments, to the point of being dominated by them? What processes (affective or otherwise) shaped the site, and the ways in which visitors experienced it? While numerous monuments had been erected prior to the sixteenth century, these were mostly confined to monarchs, members of the royal family, a handful of leading courtiers and members of the Abbey community. They jostled for a position next to the shrine, and to a lesser extent in the chapels around the shrine platform. By the early sixteenth century, some monuments occupied new, purpose-​built spaces indicating the prestige and glory of their occupants, such as the lofty chantry of Henry V or the magnificent chapel built by Henry VII to house the tombs of his wife, his mother and himself. Monumental commemoration was halted in the 1530s by the Reformation and the threats to the Abbey’s very existence as the monasteries were dissolved. By 1553, only one monument had been erected in the 20 years since the completion of the chapels of Henry VII and Abbot Islip. By the end of Elizabeth’s reign, however, a new monument was erected in the Abbey each year, a rate far outstripping anything the Abbey or any other English church had ever known. This obsession with monumental commemoration continues today, mostly in the form of floor tiles to poets, politicians and scientists, as by the eighteenth century almost all of the wall space had been occupied. Careful investigation of the dates on which the Abbey’s monuments were erected shows that the proliferation of memorialisation began in earnest in about 1584. Across the 50  years from the restoration of Edward the Confessor’s shrine in 1556 to the completion of the monument of Elizabeth in 1606, 35 monuments were erected, most of which are still extant (Figure 4.1).4 Chronologically, they fall into three groups: four monuments erected under Mary, seven in the first 25 years of Elizabeth’s reign and a further 24 from 1584 to 1606. The first group of monuments dates from 1556 and 1557 and is associated with the restoration of the shrine and the Abbey’s monastic community by Queen Mary. In 1556, Nicholas Brigham, a loyal servant of the queen and a noted antiquary, erected a new and expensive monument to Chaucer, who had been buried in the south transept in 1400. This monument has been interpreted by Derek Pearsall as an attempt to link English vernacular literature with the renewal of Catholicism.5 Small tablets were also erected in June 1557 for Brigham’s daughter, and for a Spaniard, Diego Sanchez, many of whose compatriots were buried next door in St Margaret’s Westminster. The fourth tomb was that of Anne of Cleves, the last surviving wife of Henry VIII, who died in 1557 and was buried on the south side of the high altar of the Abbey. Mary commissioned what might have become an impressive monument in high Renaissance style, only the base of which was completed.

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70  Peter Sherlock

Figure 4.1 View of monuments, St Nicholas Chapel, Westminster Abbey. Image copyright Dean and Chapter of Westminster Abbey.

This brief rush of activity came to an end with Mary’s death in 1558. Mary was buried in the vacant north aisle of her grandfather’s chapel. When the Abbey’s altar stones were removed in 1561, they were deposited on her grave.6 Only seven monuments were erected during the next quarter of a century. These included monuments to the first Dean of Westminster, William Bill (d.1561), three of the queen’s cousins, Frances, Duchess of Suffolk (d.1559), Katherine Knollys (d.1568), Margaret Countess of Lennox (d.1578) and Lady Jane Seymour (d.1561), niece of Henry VIII’s third wife.7 The remaining two monuments were for courtiers: the Treasurer, Thomas Parry (d.1560), and the Master of the Buckhounds, Richard Pecksall (or Pexsall) (d.1571). Pecksall’s monument, otherwise an anomaly in this pattern of royal commemoration, was permitted by the Dean and Chapter in accordance with his testamentary request to be interred next to the tomb of his great-​grandfather, Bernard Brocas.8 From 1584, however, the erection of large and magnificent tombs became commonplace, shaping a new sense of heritage through the glorification of individuals and families. Twenty-​four tombs were erected over the next two decades, roughly one a year. Many of these were large edifices, five or ten metres high, that displayed multiple effigies, colourful heraldic shields and lengthy inscriptions. They colonised the spaces vacated by altars in the many chapels radiating around the central shrine area. By 1600 they

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The Elizabethan monuments of Westminster Abbey 71 were being erected in the choir aisles and nave. They celebrated countesses, marchionesses and duchesses, knights, military leaders, poets and deans. This process culminated in the early seventeenth century with the completion in 1606 of a monument for Queen Elizabeth, followed in 1612 by a larger one for her cousin and rival, Mary Stuart, in opposite aisles of Henry VII’s chapel. These were commissioned by James VI and I  as part of his programme of royal monuments that rewrote British history in order to celebrate the triumph of the Stuart dynasty in its sovereignty over Scotland, England, Wales and Ireland.9 The reason for the abrupt acceleration in the building of monuments from 1584 is unknown. Nothing in the acts of the Dean and Chapter suggests a policy shift, nor is there any indication that the queen or her ministers took a sudden liking to monumental commemoration at the Abbey. One possible explanation is that Elizabeth’s Protestant regime was gaining in confidence after a quarter of a century in power; was it simply time to commemorate its first generation of leaders as they began to die from natural causes in the 1580s? Several of the tombs originated in three family networks close to the throne:  William Cecil and his sister-​ in-​ law Elizabeth Russell; the children of Elizabeth’s aunt Mary (Boleyn) Carey; and the family of Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford. Many of those commemorated were residents of Westminster, maintaining townhouses in the precinct convenient to court and Parliament. As such the Abbey, the heart of a thriving local economy, could fulfil the role of parish churches up and down the kingdom in which the gentry and nobility constructed their tombs.10

Early Modern tourism at Westminster Abbey For would-​be patrons, the Abbey had two major advantages over other churches:  association with the monarchy and a far greater number of visitors. In 1631, the antiquary John Weever demonstrated that the Abbey was heavily engaged in what twenty-​first-​century readers would recognise as heritage tourism, when he reported What concourse of people come daily, to view the lively Statues and stately Monuments in Westminster Abbey wherin the sacred ashes of so many of the Lords anointed, beside other great Potentates are entombed. A sight which brings delight and admiration, and strikes a religious apprehension into the mindes of the beholders. (Weever, 1631, 41) Heritage had a solemn purpose for Weever. He expected these ‘beholders’ to respond to the Abbey tombs with reverence for human remains, respect for the honour of those commemorated and contemplation of their own mortality.

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72  Peter Sherlock A ‘concourse of people’ had been coming to visit the Abbey tombs since its foundation. Prior to the Reformation a primary purpose of the Abbey was pilgrimage to the shrine of the Confessor. From 1560, pilgrims were replaced by tourists, though for the likes of Weever tourism was inflected with the ‘religious apprehension’ of pilgrimage. As early as 1561 the Dean and Chapter appointed a ‘keeper of the monuments’ to show visitors around for a small fee.11 By 1609, Thomas Dekker reported on the trend of country gentleman bringing their wives up to London ‘to learne the fashion, see the Tombs at Westminster, the Lyons in the Tower, or to take physicke.’12 In 1641, Henry Peacham included the Abbey in his compendium of ways to spend a penny: ‘[f]‌or a peny you may heare a most eloquent Oration upon our English Kings and Queenes, if keeping your hands off, you will seriously listen to David Owen, who keeps the Monuments in Westminster.’13 Tombs were to be seen, not touched. Pilgrims had once sought a physical connection with the dead, pursuing the mediation of a saint or exposure to the healing power of relics. Early Modern heritage tourists, however, were expected to pursue different ends: self-​improvement, curiosity, pious reflection, entertainment. What tourists encountered was also changed, as monuments themselves formed a ‘concourse’ of representations of the worthy members of each generation. The tours available at the Abbey were not always appreciated. An epigram published around 1599 mocked a poet who could only write boring and unlearned speeches, evidenced by the fact that the said poet had: First taught him that keepes the monumentes At Westminster his formall tale to say And also him which puppets represents, And also him which with the Ape doth play. (Davis and Marlowe, 1599?, ‘In Dacum 30’) In 1666, George Alsop had a dismal memory of the Abbey’s keeper: if that snuffling Prolocutor, that waits upon the dead Monuments of the Tombs at Westminster, with his white Rod were there, he might walk from Tomb to Tomb with his, Here lies the Duke of Ferrara and his Dutchess, and never find any decaying vacation, unless it were in the moldering Consumption of his own Lungs. (Alsop, 1666, 69) The emergence of the Abbey along with other wonders such as the lions at the Tower of London was not unintended. Seventeenth-​century visitors to the Abbey could even obtain a souvenir guide, suggesting a careful cultivation of literate tourism, in the form of a Latin book by William Camden

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The Elizabethan monuments of Westminster Abbey 73 detailing the monuments and their inscriptions.14 Camden’s work was evidently popular as he issued updated editions in 1603 and 1606 to include first the burial of Elizabeth and then details of her newly completed monument.

The Westminster experience: poetic emotions Some of the best evidence for how the tombs at Westminster were experienced by visitors comes from Early Modern poetry. The poems discussed below exhibit wonder at the distinctions of fame and glory represented by so many monuments, contrasted with the common denominator of death that brought them all into being. These poems also convey an experience of alterity, of otherness, that modern studies emphasise is a key part of the emotional impact of tourism.15 A visit to see the tombs at the Abbey was expected to affect, as well as educate, the tourist. One of the most well-​known poems on the tombs of Westminster Abbey is ‘A memento for mortalitie,’ subtitled ‘Taken from the view of Sepulchres of so many Kings and Nobles, as lye interred in the Abbey of Westminster.’ Commonly attributed to Francis Beaumont, it is likely the work of William Basse, who oversaw its first appearance in print in 1619.16 As ‘A memento for mortalitie’ records, by 1619 the Abbey already had the appearance of an indoor cemetery: Heere’s an Aker sowne indeed With the richest royalst seed. The poem’s response to this funerary display lies firmly within the memento mori tradition prominent in late Medieval and Early Modern Europe.17 The reader is urged to see that death comes equally to all, even the greatest of men and women: Mortality, behold and feare What a change of flesh is here, Thinke how many royall bones Sleepe within this heape of stones, Hence remou’d from beds of ease, Dainty fare, and what might please, Fretted roofes and costly showes, To a roofe that flats the nose … This overwhelming commemoration of death forces all mortal beings to contemplate their fate, to acknowledge that ‘all flesh is grasse’: That there is no trust in Health, In youth, in age, in greatnesse, wealth.

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74  Peter Sherlock The Abbey is, however, a scene of active contemplation. The dead ‘preach … from their Pulpits seel’d with dust’ the message that, in the face of death, ‘in Greatnes is no trust.’ The visitor may take this lesson to heart by wandering through the tombs: Then bid the wanton Lady tread, Amid these mazes of the dead. And these truely vnderstood, More shall coole & quench the blood. From this contemplation fear and humility should flow, for even if: The proud man beat it from his thought, Yet to this shape all must be brought. The poem draws out the juxtaposition of the magnificent commemorative displays to the dead, reflecting rank, degree and honour, and the presence of the mortal remains of the dead, indistinguishable in their decay. The ‘memento for mortalitie’ is a striking reminder of the collective power of the Abbey monuments. Visitors in the present moment are confronted by the remains of the dead and compelled by this visitation from the past to contemplate their own, future mortality. At Westminster, this is a movement greater than individual or familial grief; it is a collective, even national, remembrance as visitors encounter famous names from their shared history. This movement and motion is not present in an earlier, less-​well-​known literary response to the Abbey by Thomas Bastard, published in 159818: When I beholde with deepe astonishment, To famous Westminster how there resorte, Liuing in brasse or stony monyment. The princes and the worthies of all sorte: Doe not I see reformde Nobilitie, Without contempt or pride, or ostentation? And looke vpon offenselesse Maiesty, Naked of pompe or earthly domination? And howe a play-​game of a painted stone, Contents the quiet now and silent spirites. Whome all the world which late they stood vpon, Could not content nor squench their appetites, Life is a frost of cold felicity. And death the thawe of all our vanitie. (Bastard, 1598, 97–​98)

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The Elizabethan monuments of Westminster Abbey 75 Here the ‘play-​ game of a painted stone’ is satisfaction enough for the unmoving, unadorned dead, in contrast with the all-​consuming appetite of worldly vanities. The Abbey monuments, although famous, are but a shadow of the passions of the living. As such, the tombs remind the astonished viewer of the sober equality brought by death and of the illusory nature of the vitality of the living.

The Westminster experience: heritage and memory These antiquarian and literary responses to the Westminster tombs focus on the arousal of wonder at the remains of the dead, wonder that leads to sober contemplation of the mortality and vanity of the living. What of the emotional world of the tombs themselves? They fall into four broad groupings determined by their subjects and patrons, each with a slightly different emphasis in terms of attributes and affections. Monuments to Abbey staff include those of two deans, with a restrained focus on erudition and piety. Monuments to courtiers and leading officials emphasise magnificence and honour, and provide ever larger records of their lineages and deeds. Monuments to the queen’s relations play to dynastic politics, and predictably share many elements with those of the aristocracy. Finally, at the very end of the reign, the beginnings of what will become a major trend can be seen in the commemorations of military veterans that emphasise battlefield valour.19 The early Elizabethan tombs are generally focussed on details establishing identity:  name, lineage, offices and dates. Some include Latin poetry that elaborated on these themes, but added little in the way of emotional drama. The monument of William Bill (d.1561), Dean of Westminster, focusses on his attributes, describing him as a learned man of integrity who had served his queen and country. The poor, to whom he had been a father, and the three colleges he had led (Eton, Trinity and Westminster) are sad (‘moesta’) at the loss of him. The author of the epitaph expresses his esteem for the Dean, and contrasts this with the ‘great misfortune of his country’ in his death.20 Thus Bill’s epitaph explains the grief, sadness and loss caused by his death, through reference to his attributes and achievements in life. The monument to Katherine Knollys (d.1569), cousin to the queen, presents her as a person of high birth. Her memorial is an elaborate wall tablet with two small pillars and a pediment, providing an elegant frame for the display of heraldry and inscriptions. The English epitaph describes her relationship to the queen through their Boleyn mothers, explaining how she came to be ‘honorably buried in the flower [floor] of this chappell.’ A Latin poem addressed primarily to her husband Francis laments their separation: O Francis Knollys behold Katherine, she who was wife to you lies dead under the ice-​cold marble.

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76  Peter Sherlock Being dead she will be cut off from your soul, I know it is not enough that While living she was always loving to you.21 (Camden, 1606, 49) To be dead meant the separation of body and soul, the body lying in cold ground. The epitaph attributes this separation of Francis from his wife to God’s will, and locates Katherine’s soul in heaven awaiting her husband: But God desired it not, he willed that the bride Should wait in heaven, O Katherine, for your husband.22 Several aristocratic tombs focus on worldly and heavenly attributes, rather than passions or affections. The monument of the Countess of Sussex was erected according to her will in the Abbey and was a celebration of her liberality and charity, especially her foundation of Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge. Effigy, heraldry, architecture and inscriptions all emphasise her noble status, and speak of how: she lived adorned with many and most rare gifts both of minde and body, towards God truely and zealously religious, to her friends and kinsfolk most liberall, to the poore prisoners, to the ministers of the word of God alwaies most charitable. (Camden, 1606, 56–​7) Further adages and biblical quotations sprinkled across the tomb emphasise the moral qualities to be imitated: mercy; charity; piety; prudence; marital faith. The key biblical passage is ‘[b]‌lessed are the dead who die in the Lord’ (Rev 14). The monument is didactic, instructing the visitor on how to live and how to die. The tomb of William Thynne (d.1584) conventionally conveys his lineage and military deeds. Its inscription, however, concludes with theological statements that provide bulwarks against grief, and establish the monument as an expression of amicable love: Christ to me is life, and death to me is gain. The day of death is the birthday of eternal life. John Chamberlain of Prestbury, knight, placed this monument to his dearly beloved kinsman.23 (Camden, 1606, 68–​69) Some of the most engaging epitaphs from this period take the form of a conversation. One of these is the monument erected by Robert Cecil, son of Lord Burghley, to his wife Elizabeth Brooke after her death following

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The Elizabethan monuments of Westminster Abbey 77 childbirth in 1591. This presents a public, yet intimate picture of the fracturing of their marriage by death through a Latin conversation between husband and wife: WIFE: 

Lady of the Garter’s Bedchamber, daughter of a dear Baron, faithful consort of a Knight, Elizabeth was I. We shared one love, one undivided will, one heart, and one unbroken trust. Could he at any time put aside his care for me, then could he be forgetful of his own soul. HUSBAND:  Should love accord with tears, (O dearest wife), oft would I bestow tears upon your grave: for your reward bears witness, (my sweet spouse), and my heart knows well, with how great a love I returned your love. But love permits no grieving while your Companion still sits upon her throne; and the greater love of Christ has bound you closely to Himself. So may you, my beloved, enjoy your blessedness in peace; my hope is that, in company with you, my portion will be peace.24 Here, the loss of their marital union is compensated by their reformed Christian faith and by the husband’s constant work for that other Elizabeth. Faith, hope and work provide an antidote to grief.

The Russell monument and the performance of grief The most significant tomb from this period was erected by Elizabeth Russell, one of Anthony Cooke’s famous literary daughters and sister of William Cecil’s wife Mildred. In 1584, Russell’s second husband, John, Lord Russell, died and she oversaw an elaborate ceremony at Westminster Abbey for his funeral. Already a highly experienced patron of tombs, she commissioned a grand and complex monument which was erected over his grave in St Edmund’s Chapel (Figure 4.2).25 Erected in 1584 or shortly thereafter, this was a pivotal tomb in the acceleration of monumental commemoration at the Abbey. Many of the tombs which were erected in the next two decades were commissioned by members of the Russell and Cecil lineage. The monument depicts Lord Russell’s effigy reclining stiffly on a sarcophagus beneath a triumphal arch. Behind him and above him, his two daughters Nan and Bess, heavily clothed, bear up his coat of arms, while in the arch’s spandrels two classically draped female figures with breasts bared carry laurel wreaths and wait to crown him as he rises into everlasting life. The whole edifice is peppered with painted elegies and epitaphs composed by his widow in Latin, Greek and English. The monument is an exemplary performance in three ways. It marks Lord Russell’s lineage, life and death, presents the grief of his widow and children and converts his funeral rituals into a permanent form intended to last until the resurrection of the dead. It constitutes a theological statement about death, taking the long-​established idea of a monument as a conversation between the living and the dead and populating it with reformed beliefs.

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Figure 4.2 Monument of John, Lord Russell (d.1584), Westminster Abbey. Image copyright Dean and Chapter of Westminster Abbey.

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The Elizabethan monuments of Westminster Abbey 79 It makes a public intervention into Elizabethan dynastic politics to establish his widow’s and his daughters’ proper places in the social order, part of Russell’s long-​running campaign for recognition of titles and honours. This performative aspect is evidenced in the visual and verbal composition, which became commonplace in the canon of early modern sepulchral design but was highly innovative in 1584. The tomb’s form and images signify the expectation of triumph. The position of the effigy, lying between the mortal remains below and the triumphal arch above, is suggestive of its suspension between death and the resurrection of the body. The figures of the two daughters bearing the coat of arms signify the continuity of the line, but their gender is not quite overlooked as the tomb also includes a tiny effigy of their brother, who died in infancy. They are juxtaposed with the two classical female figures bearing the wreaths of glory. The tomb’s imagery therefore sets the triumph of the resurrection above earthly grief, and subdues the anguish of loss beneath the hope of posterity and eternal life. This theme is summed up in the central text of the monument, the motto chosen by Russell for her husband’s funeral, ‘In Alto Requies’ (rest on high).26 It is in the tomb’s many texts that turbulent emotions appear. These texts take the form of elegiac verse in the first person addressed by Russell to the visitor, the dead man or their children, and a further text by Edward Hoby, Russell’s son by her first husband, to his stepfather. Patricia Phillippy has aptly called attention to poetry’s functions of consolation and reconciliation in the experience of grief, and of the significance of conversation as a mode for reformed theological discussion in which inward doubts can be explored and outward truths forged through fellowship.27 In this way these first-​ person elegies contain and shape Russell’s intense outpouring of emotion in response to Lord Russell’s death, and permit the visitor to observe them. A central plaque on the tomb chest tells the visitor of Lord Russell’s virtue and birth, and affections displayed by others towards him: Of heaven loved, and honored on the earth: His country’s hope, his kindred’s chief delight. It then asserts his widow’s claim on him who was ‘now my tear-​thirsty clay,’ for ‘I from death will take his memory.’ An elegy inscribed in Greek on the back panel speaks of how death had ‘stripped away the delight of the living.’ Yet the grief of the widow and daughters is countered by the comfort of redemption, for ‘because of piety, he –​holy –​shares heavenly bliss, calling those partaking his family.’ Other elegies in Latin repeat the same themes of earthly pain, experienced physically and mentally, salved by faith: My wounded mind is lacerated with cruel pain when the thought of your death, having appeared, occurs. But I complain in vain, because divine will has decreed this very thing: That bereft of earthly things, I, alone, shall seek celestial ones.

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80  Peter Sherlock Russell also wrote Latin verses about her daughters and their grief: Lament aloud now, daughters, now pour forth a tearful poem, Alas, the only glory of your house has perished. This grief is superseded by Russell’s exhortation to her daughters to be dutiful in imitation of their father ‘who shone by birth, but more by goodness.’ In all the Russell epitaphs, the pain of grief is expressed in terms of mental afflictions and physical exclamations. This reflects Erin Sullivan’s persuasive argument from literary and medical evidence that in Early Modern England it was widely believed that sadness and grief needed to be expressed through words, action and tears, to avoid harm to the mourner.28 Yet having expressed the pain of present grief, Russell proceeded in each elegy to subsume it in future hope. This was primarily the hope of the resurrection of the dead, assured in Lord Russell’s case on account of his demonstrable piety, but also the hope of posterity, dependent on the Russell daughters’ imitation of their father. Thus, present grief would fade before the triumph of the resurrection, when the monument itself would no longer be needed.

Conclusion This essay has demonstrated that the contemporary shape of Westminster Abbey as a museum of monuments, a heritage site, was largely a creation of the late Elizabethan period. The monuments appealed deliberately to the curiosity and wonder of Early Modern tourists, who replaced the Christian pilgrims of earlier ages. The monuments made a strong collective impression on visitors as tourists and poets alike were struck by the panoply of fame and mortality spread before them. The 35 tombs erected between 1556 and 1606 made repeated reference to the emotions of their subjects and their patrons, most especially in their inscriptions. They emphasised faith, hope and love as the instruments for overcoming grief. This emotional regime was founded in the Church of England’s assurance of the resurrection of the dead for all who believed in Christ, an assurance which enabled monuments to express a new confidence in the wake of the Reformation.29 The monuments of Westminster Abbey helped to establish a new understanding of English heritage. Drawing on the power of death and the fear of future mortality, and on Renaissance discourses of magnificence, the monuments captivated visitors through their intimations of death, and argued for the historical continuity and strength of this newly Protestant kingdom. Success bred success; aristocrats, clergy and academics drew on the wonder of royal tombs around which they gathered in ever-​increasing numbers to build the reputation of this site of memory. Yet weaved throughout this narrative of national triumph were emotions of grief, loss and hope. These

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The Elizabethan monuments of Westminster Abbey 81 emotions resonated not only with the immediate family and friends of the dead, but also to posterity and to tourists whose connections to the people interred at the Abbey were not personal but communal. The experience of loss, of pain, of sadness expressed in the monuments of the late sixteenth century was universalised, and gave force to a version of history that would become increasingly compelling in the centuries to come.

Notes 1 Richard Jenkyns, Westminster Abbey, 3rd edn. (London:  Profile Books, 2011), 1, 8. 2 The best recent history of the Abbey is Jenkyns, Westminster Abbey. For an overview of the Abbey monuments, see the introductory essay by John Physick in Joe Whitlock Blundell, Westminster Abbey: The Monuments (London: John Murray, 1989), 9–​16. For the Early Modern period, see Adam White, ‘Westminster Abbey in the Early Seventeenth Century: A Powerhouse of Ideas’, Church Monuments 4 (1989): 16–​53. 3 On Edward and his cult, see Paul Binski, Westminster Abbey and the Plantagenets (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995); Richard Mortimer, ‘Edward the Confessor: The Man and the Legend’, Edward the Confessor: The Man and the Legend, ed. Richard Mortimer (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2009), 1–​40. 4 There were also six small tablets or ledger stones erected in the cloisters, none of which survive, and inscribed wooden ‘tables’ to supplement the royal monuments. These have been excluded from this study. For a full list of monuments erected up to 1606, see William Camden, Reges, reginae, nobiles, & alij in ecclesia collegiata B.  Petri Westmonasterij sepulti, vsque ad annum reparatae salutis 1600, 3rd edn. (London: Excudebat Melch. Bradwoodus, 1606). 5 Derek Pearsall, ‘Chaucer’s Tomb: The Politics of Reburial’, Medium aevum 64 (1995):  51–​73. For Chaucer’s tomb, see also Joseph Dane, Who Is Buried in Chaucer’s Tomb? Studies in the Reception of Chaucer’s Book (East Lansing, MI:  Michigan State University Press, 1998), 11–​ 32; Thomas Prendergast, Chaucer’s Dead Body: From Corpse to Corpus (New York: Routledge, 2004). 6 The Diary of Henry Machyn, ed. John Gough Nichols, Vol. XLII (London: The Camden Society, 1848), 256. 7 The monument of the Duchess of Suffolk is inscribed with the date of its erection, 1563, while the monument to Jane Seymour may have been erected as late as the 1580s. 8 The National Archives (UK):  PROB 11/​53/​489, will of Sir Richard Pexsall, 9 October 1571, proved 8 November 1571. C.S. Knighton, Acts of the Dean and Chapter of Westminster: 1543–​1609, vol. 2 (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 1997), 54, no. 266. 9 Peter Sherlock, ‘The Monuments of Elizabeth Tudor and Mary Stuart:  King James and the Manipulation of Memory at Westminster Abbey’, Journal of British History 46 (2007): 263–​89. 10 On the Westminster district, see Julia Merritt, The Social World of Early Modern Westminster: Abbey, Court, and Community, 1525–​1640 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2005) and C.S. Knighton (ed.), Westminster Abbey Reformed: 1540–​1640 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003).

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82  Peter Sherlock 11 On Early Modern tourism at the Abbey, see Nigel Llewellyn, Funeral Monuments in Post-​Reformation England (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2000), 340–​47; J.F. Merritt, ‘The Cradle of Laudianism? Westminster Abbey 1558–​1630’, The Journal of Ecclesiastical History 52:4 (Oct 2001): 638–​ 9; Peter Sherlock, ‘The Art of Making Memory:  Epitaphs, Tables and Adages at Westminster Abbey’, Religion, the Supernatural and Visual Culture in Early Modern Europe: Essays in Honour of Charles Zika, ed. Dagmar Eichberger and Jennifer Spinks (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 354–​69. 12 Thomas Dekker, The Guls Horne-​book (London:  Imprint for R.S. [Richard Sergier], 1609), 32–​3. 13 Henry Peacham, The Worth of a Peny (London: R. Hearne, 1641), 20–​1. 14 William Camden, Reges, reginae, nobiles et  alii in ecclesia collegiata B. Westmonasterii sepulti. (London: J.G. Bollifantus, 1600). 15 David Picard, ‘Tourism, Awe and Inner Journeys’, Emotion in Motion: Tourism, Affect and Transformation, ed. David Picard and Mike Robinson (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012), 1–​20. 16 W.B. [William Basse] and E.P. [Edward Phillips], A Helpe to Discourse, or A Miscelany of Merriment (London: Bernard Alsop for Leonard Becket, 1619), 187–​9. Subsequent quotations are from the 1619 edition. For the textual history of this poem and its attribution to William Basse, see Norman Ault (ed.), Elizabethan Lyrics (London: Faber and Faber, 1986), 491, 528–​9; and Norman Ault, ‘A Memento for Mortalitie’, Times Literary Supplement (12 January 1933): 24. For an alternative attribution to John Weever, see Ernst Honigmann, John Weever:  A Biography of a Literary Associate of Shakespeare and Jonson (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1987), 65–​7. 17 On this tradition and its expression in monuments, see Peter Sherlock, Monuments and Memory in Early Modern England (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 71–​95. 18 See P.J. Finkelpearl, ‘Bastard, Thomas (1565/​6-​1618)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, online edn., ed. Lawrence Goldman (Oxford:  Oxford University Press). www.oxforddnb.com/​view/​article/​1656 (accessed 7 November 2016). 19 On this last group of tombs, see Peter Sherlock, ‘Militant Masculinity and the Monuments of Westminster Abbey’, Governing Masculinities in the Early Modern Period: Regulating Selves and Others, ed. Susan Broomhall and Jacqueline van Gent (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2011), 131–​52. 20 [Aut ego dilexi nimium, dum viveret, illum; Aut patriae magno concidit ipse malo.] See John Dart, Westmonasterium, or the History and Antiquities of the Abbey Church of St Peters Westminster, 2 vols (London:  James Cole, 1723, 1742), 100. 21 [Quae Francisce fuit tibi coniux en Katharina, /​Mortua sub gelido marmore Knolle iacet. /​Excidet ex animo tibi mortua, sat scio nunquam /​Viua tibi viuo semper amata fuit.] 22 [Noluit at Deus, hoc voluit sed sponsa maritum /​In coelis maneas, o Katherina, tuum.] 23 [Christus mihi vita, & mors mihi lucrum. Dies mortis aeternae vitae natalis est. Johannis Chamberlaine de Prestbury Armiger Charissimo Affini hoc monumentum posuit.] 24 Translation from John Physick, WAM, item 246. The Latin original may be consulted at Camden, Reges, reginae, nobiles et  alii (1606), 39–​40. See also

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The Elizabethan monuments of Westminster Abbey 83 Patricia Phillippy, ‘Living Stones: Lady Elizabeth Russell and the Art of Sacred Conversation’, English Women, Religion, and Textual Production, 1500–​1625, ed. Micheline White (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), 17–​36. 25 On the Russell tomb, see Patricia Phillippy, Elizabeth Cooke Hoby Russell: The Writings of an English Sappho (Toronto: Iter and Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies, 2011); Louise Schleiner, Tudor and Stuart Women Writers (Bloomington, IN:  Indiana University Press, 1994), 46–​51. All quotations in this essay from the Russell tomb are from Phillippy, Elizabeth Cooke Hoby Russell,  171–​7. 26 Phillippy, Elizabeth Cooke Hoby Russell, 136–​7, 174. 27 Phillippy, ‘Living Stones’, 17–​36. 28 Erin Sullivan, ‘A Disease unto Death:  Sadness in the Time of Shakespeare’, Emotions and Health 1200–​ 1700, ed. Elena Carrera (Leiden:  Brill, 2013), 159–​84. 29 On the turn to the resurrection as a central theme of monumental commemoration, see Sherlock, Monuments and Memory, ­chapters 3 and 4.

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5  Emotional lineages Blood, property, family and affection in Early Modern Scotland Katie Barclay

Family has and continues to be a central dimension of personal and cultural heritage in the Anglophone West, prevailing despite the growing emphasis on individuality and independence since the eighteenth century.1 Notwithstanding the debate around the transmission of names between spouses, across generations and within complex households, it remains culturally normative for a family to have a shared ‘family’ name, whilst the explosion in genealogy services and DNA ‘family relationship analysis’ indicates the desire many people have to locate themselves within a broader ‘family’ network over multiple generations.2 As well as functioning as an aspect of individual identity, the family plays a significant role in the heritage of the nation. Some families and family names –​such as Douglas, Campbell and Stuart in Scotland –​form such a central role in the construction of a nation’s history that they come to symbolise the nation’s past.3 Family histories become national histories, embedding the nation into those lineages and authorising particular names, families, ethnicities and identities with greater ‘authenticity’ than others. At times, particular family structures, such as the clan, can be used to signify what is culturally distinctive about a nation (even if that requires some myopia to global family forms), whilst tying the diaspora to the nation through their family heritage. Family lineage, and notably its role in tying particular groups of people to specific geographical locations over generations, is increasingly important to national identity, often used defensively to mark territory against ‘incomers’ and ‘outsiders.’ The family is not only where identity is taught and learned, but is the structure that embeds individuals within communities, cultures and nations through locating them within networks of people and place.4 As Laurajane Smith notes, ‘Heritage is about a sense of place. Not simply in constructing a sense of abstract identity, but also helping us position ourselves as a nation, community or individual and our “place” in our cultural, social and physical world.’5 In this sense, family becomes synonymous with heritage, where the lineage of our ancestors roots us within a particular geographical and ethnic heritage (not always unmessy), and within stories that tie us to the past, as well as positioning our present. Such stories –​produced

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Emotional lineages 85 by individuals, by families over generations, by historians, by heritage professionals, by cultural producers, by nations, in conversation –​are complex artefacts that weave not only the self and concepts of heritage together, but the self and heritage as network, as nation and as historically contingent.6 The Scots family is often viewed, not always unfairly, as particularly extended and encompassing, epitomised in the clan networks that were features of the Highland and border areas. In practice, who was imagined as part of the family was historically, geographically and socially specific, speaking to the concerns, values and needs of the period and supported through cultural, economic and legal frameworks. This chapter explores how the Early Modern Scottish family imagined and defined itself, looking especially at the key concepts of blood, property and affection as ties that bound the family together. In doing so, it draws on the law, court records and some family correspondence to unpick how Scots conceived and performed the family. A  shared legal framework, as well as kin ties that operated across class and geographical boundaries, meant that these constructions of family had broad general relevance. However, given the limitations of space, it has not been possible to explore in detail how ideas of family were adapted across social ranks or in different regions to meet the needs of particular social groups or families. Throughout, this chapter highlights the central role that emotion played in tying families together and producing lineage, with emotion, in different forms, embedded into legal, social, cultural and economic structures. This chapter argues that family heritage, and the nation it underpins, was and is produced through a lineage of affection.

Blood, milk and fictive ties ‘Blood’ was and remains central to how the family is imagined, a heritage that was historically marked by family resemblances and that is now made tangible through genetic tests.7 It is a word that appears with some frequency in the title of books about family life, from Patricia Crawford’s Blood, Bodies and Families in Early Modern England, Leanore Davidoff et al.’s, The Family Story: Blood, Contract and Intimacy, and alluded to in her more recent Thicker than Water, to Kristin Gager’s Blood Ties and Fictive Ties and the subtitle of Cheryl Nixon’s work on orphans, Estate, Blood and Body.8 In all these instances, blood alludes to a biological and familial relationship, but why the family bond is understood in terms of blood and its implications receives little interrogation. The importance of blood to family identity has a long history, central to the Early Modern Scottish family’s sense of lineage. ‘Blood’ itself was a synonym for family.9 Reinforced by the role of blood within Christianity, where Christ’s blood washed away sin and death and allowed for eternal life, blood was

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86  Katie Barclay understood as the life-​force of the human being and so held particular cultural and even magical significance.10 Across Europe, until the eighteenth and perhaps even the nineteenth century, human blood and other parts of the corpse were commonly incorporated into medicines, or even eaten alone, to cure numerous ailments.11 This was not just quack medicine; such ingredients can be found in the writings of even well-​known Enlightenment medical thinkers.12 Famously, drinking the blood of the recently decapitated execution victim was considered to be a cure for epilepsy in popular culture, because epilepsy was understood to be caused by a diminishing of the life force. Drinking blood acted to ‘top up’ a person’s blood levels. For similar reasons, drinking blood was understood to rejuvenate the elderly.13 Because blood was a form of life-​ force, it was understood to carry the traits and characteristics  –​occasionally even the soul  –​of the human being, and it was through shared blood that children received their parents’ character traits. Some medieval sects took this to its logical conclusion, arguing that the human soul was passed to the next generation through conception and eternal life came through biological lineage.14 This rather unorthodox idea did not take on widespread currency. Such ideas, however, were informed by a belief that blood, semen and breastmilk were all types of blood –​the same product, taking on a slightly different composition.15 It was immersion in this blood at conception through the sharing of semen in the womb where, until the end of the eighteenth century, children were understood to share their mother’s blood and afterwards in the consumption of breastmilk that children received their biological inheritance.16 Effectively, like Holy Communion where the consumption of the body and blood of Christ conveyed eternal life, so the immersion in and consumption of blood products in the womb and from the breast conveyed the life-​force of the parent, effectively creating family lineage. Perhaps unsurprisingly given this context, it was broadly agreed in the Early Modern period that shared blood created a special relationship between parent and child and between siblings, but also more distant relations. This was given some impetus through religious teaching that emphasised the importance of procreation and the care of children as a sacred duty, but especially through the law.17 Similarly to France and a number of other European countries, the law in Scotland defined the family in terms of blood.18 This was particularly notable in the case of inheritance law, where, for those who died intestate, once biological heirs were depleted, property returned to the Crown. It was reinforced through the fact that real property, such as land and buildings, could not be bequeathed under the feudal law in operation in Scotland, and had to follow the legal line of succession until the mid-​nineteenth century.19 As the Scottish jurist Lord Stair noted: ‘by the common law, he is only heir who succeeds by right of blood.’20 Biological children also could not be disinherited from their

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Emotional lineages 87 rights to a third of their parents’ moveable property (property other than land) in Scotland.21 Conversely, the importance of the biological meant that legal adoption was not available in Scots law. Although unmarried and childless people could bequeath their property freely and there were mechanisms for disposing of property to circumvent biological children, this legal context reinforced the importance of ‘blood’ to family identity within the Early Modern imagination through locating blood as the boundaries of the family in law. This legal framework was complicated by Early Modern understandings of biological transmission. As family identity was transmitted not only in the womb but through breastmilk, a blood product, the popular practice of wetnursing challenged individual familial heritage. The belief that children imbibed much of their character through their nurse’s milk caused anxiety in the Early Modern period, particularly for elite families who did not want their children to inherit identity traits from their lower-​order nurses.22 It was a particular concern for Puritan authors who argued that it was a maternal duty to breastfeed. The seventeenth-​century Scottish minister and advice writer James Kirkwood thought that a woman who did not breastfeed her own child was only ‘a Mother by halves.’23 This was perhaps influenced by a belief that young children’s salvation arose from the covenant God had with their biological parents. For Presbyterians, who did not believe in the efficacy of infant baptism, this covenant was solely created through family lineage. Most teaching around this issue suggested that the children of even one believer were covered by the covenant, but the considerable debate on this area and expressions such as ‘If the Children of one believing parent were by their Birth sanctify’d to God, how much more, where both the Parents are Christians; i.e. Believers?’ indicate the sense that inherited salvation was both unsure and cumulative.24 Diluting family identity through breastfeeding, therefore, potentially had significant implications for the soul of the child. Children were sometimes thought to have a special relationship with their wetnurses and the biological children of such nurses through their sharing of breastmilk. Sir Robert Montgomerie of Skelmorlie explicitly tied the physical activity of breastfeeding to an emotional bond when he asked his gardener to send his wife ‘to foster the chyld’ in 1665.25 This belief seems to have declined during the eighteenth century in Scotland during the same period that there was a growing emphasis placed on mothers breastfeeding their own children.26 In 1711, Lady Glenorchy questioned the benefits of wetnursing over feeding children animal milk, noting:  ‘I agree that it is the most natueralest way for every mother to nurs their own children, but I cannot see any reason for another womans milk to be natureall to another bodys child.’27 Her concerns on this issue were not driven by morality or duty, but by the child’s chances of survival, given her inability to breastfeed due to ill health. She recognised that there was some risk involved in

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88  Katie Barclay feeding children animal milk, but that she had lost only one daughter who was fed animal milk but two sons who were wetnursed. She had also ‘gott a women who buseness it has been for severell years in England to bring them up with-​out the breast, but I alow tis what thay are very ignorant off in this natione and should think it a venture to have undertaken it, but by one as has been ust to itt.’ Lady Glenorchy’s primary concern was the health benefits of different feeding practices. Yet, like for others of her generation, maternal breastfeeding was still considered the most efficacious practice, a success she located in the familial connection between mother and child. In placing emphasis on maternal milk, rather than human milk, this cultural framework for understanding breastfeeding reinforced the biological family found in the law, over the social family created through wider family networks. A similar phenomenon can be seen in the decline of fosterage during the eighteenth century. Fosterage was a system whereby children lived with other families for a period during their childhood to cement social, economic or political alliances. This required a financial investment in the child from the foster family, but also created a close, familial relationship between foster siblings and foster children and parents. It was these ‘emotional bonds’ that were intended to outlive the fosterage arrangement and ensure the long-​ term success of the alliance. This was a particularly common arrangement amongst the Scottish clans that continued into the eighteenth century, but started to decline from the mid-​century.28 Biological ties were increasingly given precedence over socially produced families. This shift should not be overstated. Family ties created through spiritual and affective bonds remained important beyond the eighteenth century. Through the church baptismal ceremony, children were recognised as members of a particular family and the church community, an acknowledgement that emphasised the role of the community as a spiritual family for the child.29 It drew in wider kin as godparents. Archibald Campbell, Earl of Argyll, asked his cousin the Laird of Glenorchy to be ‘gossip’ to his new son in the 1660s, whilst their near-​relative John Campbell, Earl of Breadalbane, asked the Bishop of Worcester to stand as ‘godparent’ in 1738.30 Children could also be informally adopted, which often happened if someone failed to have natural heirs. While neither adopted nor foster children came under the lists of succession, and so could not automatically inherit property, nor exclude biological children from their legal portion of the inheritance, parents could will property to them. In 1709, John Mackenzie asked his son’s godfather, John Campbell, Earl of Breadalbane, to have their near-​relative Campbell of Carwhin adopt his son ‘if he come short of geting one to himself.’31 Like with biological heirs, the future inheritance of property became the symbolic marker of these individuals’ place and rights within the family. If blood was always an important form of family heritage and family could be made through fictive practices, an emphasis on this biological inheritance

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Emotional lineages 89 became increasingly central to the imagining of the Scottish family, a heritage that continued to the present.

Land and name Land was a significant aspect of identity for many Early Modern Scottish families, who came to be associated with particular properties. These inheritances of ‘place,’ both as physical space and belonging, created affective attachments to geographic sites that can still be seen in contemporary genealogical tourism as diasporas seek their homeplaces.32 Claims to family-​ property were often, at least nominally, respected by others. When James Lundin came into ownership of the Earl of Perth’s estates as the nearest Protestant relative after the 1745 Jacobite Rebellion, he protested to his kinsman, the laird of Blair Drummond, that he would never consider himself or any of his descendants the ‘rightful and natural heirs’ whilst there were nearer heirs ‘in point of blood.’33 The importance of land to lineal identity was epitomised in law through the use of the word ‘heretage’ to describe inherited real property and in practice in the lengths that many families went to preserve their property for future generations, which included, especially from the late seventeenth century, a growth in entailing land.34 The ownership of real property in Scotland, however, was complicated by the continuation of feudal law, where almost all land was held through a superior, rather than in direct ownership. As Stair noted, most tenancies were held ‘in kind,’ that is, with recognition of the heirs’ rights to inherit following the death of the current tenant, which reinforced the heritable nature of property holdings.35 However, in holding land through a superior, ‘vassals’ (or tenants) became embedded in the lineage of the superior and ultimately the monarch, as well as their own. This complicated the heritage that was transmitted through property, both by destabilising the family’s relationship with particular pieces of land but also in tying them into a ‘national’ lineage that was larger than their own family. Land was also a vulnerable form of lineage in that it was subject to being attainted or sold for debt.36 As such, land was a method for ensuring the survival of the family over generations, and particularly for securing power and influence for the family, rather than standing for the family itself. Whilst it was desirable for property to descend through the blood line, especially amongst elite families, it was the transfer and safeguarding of property under a single name that marked the continuation of family. When Sir James Grant was congratulated on the birth of his fifth son, a family friend advised James to call this son Humphrey, the name of a deceased paternal uncle, but also that of his maternal great-​grandfather, Sir Humphrey Colquhoun.37 The Humphrey name had been adopted into the family because Humphrey Colquhoun had settled his estates onto his daughter, Anne, and her husband

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90  Katie Barclay on their marriage. As a condition of the settlement, James’s grandfather (a younger son also named James) had changed his surname to Colquhoun, and the couple named their eldest son Humphrey. When James’s grandfather inherited the Grant estates on the death of his elder brother, he changed his name back to Grant and his second son inherited both the Colquhoun estates and name (a condition of the entail restricted the estates from merging). When the eldest son and James’s uncle, Humphrey, died unmarried, the second son, Ludovick (James’s father), reverted to the Grant name and a third son, James, became Colquhoun.38 For these families, name and property were inseparable, requiring individuals to sublimate their own identities to that of the family and estate that they held, even when that required multiple name and property changes over time. Such practices reinforced the idea that the family was a larger entity than its members, investing its members in its survival over time. The importance of naming to family identity was reinforced through the reusing of family first names, whilst fictive kin were also tied to the family through name-​sharing, particularly in the case of godparents. In some families, it was traditional to allow godparents to choose the child’s name. The Great Duke Cosimo III de Medici asked Alexander, Duke of Gordon to have the Roman Catholic Bishop of Scotland hold his godson at the christening in his name, and gave the father permission to give the child what name he pleased.39 Alexander called his son Cosmo George after the Great Duke. Children who shared a name with an older relative or patron were viewed as having a special tie with them, a form of parent-​child relationship. This was noted by referring to such children as the ‘name-​daughter’ or ‘name-​ son,’ whilst the adult was referred to as ‘name-​father’ or ‘name-​mother.’ Alexander Hamilton’s brother John stood as ‘name-​father’ for his nephew at his baptism.40 It was viewed as natural that children would benefit from this relationship. When Agnes Farmer’s will was challenged, her lawyers argued that it was appropriate that she would leave her property to her two infant grand-​nieces, ‘her own name-​daughters.’41 ‘Name-​daughter’ may not always have signified a formal relationship. Arabella Campbell’s daughter shared a name with her sister Mary, and she referred to her as Mary’s name-​ daughter in correspondence.42 But whether Mary was also a godparent is not clear. The tie created by a shared name should not be underestimated. Naming children in expectation of patronage was common practice, relying on an assumption that people would give special consideration to their name-​kin. In formally accepting the role of ‘name-​parent,’ individuals appeared to have endorsed the moral and practical responsibilities that this entailed. More broadly, such naming practices were also used to highlight a family’s loyalty and connection towards a wider kin group or royalty. Archibald Montgomerie Williamson Ramsay, daughter of Thomas Williamson Ramsay, appears to have been named for her distant relative the Earl of Eglinton, while Lord Anne Hamilton was named for his godmother, Queen

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Emotional lineages 91 Anne. The latter name elicited some surprise at the time of the child’s birth in 1709; naming men after women was relatively unusual.43 Queen Anne’s position as the monarch and the Duke of Hamilton’s (Lord Anne’s father) desire to elicit her patronage and demonstrate his loyalty took precedence over gender norms. In contrast, reflecting that it was more often men who held wealth and power in Early Modern Scotland, naming women after men was more common, with such women sometimes later feminising their names. James Malcolm was known as Jamie, and James Anne MacDowall as Anne. Within elite families, naming practices invested children in their patrimony and lineage, with names being closely tied to family groups and to the land associated with their titles and status. As Steve Murdoch demonstrates, such markers of familial identity had tangible benefits, allowing individuals to make claims on the resources of, sometimes distant, family members and obliging them to respond appropriately.44 For elite families, holding a particular name or the political and social power associated with landownership also implicated individuals in national histories and heritage, where they or their ancestors, their deeds, material culture and homes were or became implicated in the foundation myths and imaginings of the nation. Others became implicated inasmuch as they could demonstrate their affective connections to important families.45 Whilst blood was central to the imagining of the Scottish family, it was not the only way to imagine family, creating alternative networks of identity, different lineages and competing heritages. Land and name –​like today –​were significant in producing the family as heritage and tied it to place and identity.

Affection, property and family If blood, land and name created identity and a sense of place and belonging, emotion too could act as form of inheritance. In the seventeenth century, definitions of family based on blood were influenced by the growth in natural law theory, which argued that it was natural affection between family members that created the special relationship between parent and child.46 This position still emphasised the biological as natural affection was an innate feeling that parents, in particular, felt towards their children to ensure the survival of the species through encouraging parents to provide, protect and educate children. This is not to say that no one had emphasised the importance of love and affection within family relationships previous to this. Love had long been a Christian duty expected between husbands and wives, parents and children and the wider Christian community.47 Moreover, love between parents and children had long been viewed as ‘natural.’ However, this emphasis on natural affection as a biological instinct tied together blood and affection, creating a lineage of affection. Natural law was very influential to the framing of Scots law at the end of the seventeenth century, with natural affection becoming the basis and

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92  Katie Barclay justification of inheritance practices that had existed in Scotland for hundreds of years. The line of succession for inheritance created by law was understood to be the ‘will of the defunct,’ which was what society presumed the deceased would have wanted based on his or her expected natural affections. As Stair noted, more distant relatives did not automatically inherit as ‘the Propinquity of Blood, Natural Affection, and so the presumed Will of the Defunct is diminished.’48 Scottish jurists explicitly knitted together consanguinity and affection and both increased or diminished depending on the closeness of the biological tie. The importance of affection to understandings of family identity placed emotion at the heart of family lineage, requiring even extended family members to show affection towards each other. This affection was not just viewed as something that developed or grew with relationships (although such a construction of affection was recognised), but rather was understood to be a natural, even spontaneous, product of the familial connection. As a result, affection could be created through fictive kin relationships, so, for example, godparents were expected to hold particular affection for their godchildren as a result of their fictive parenthood. Similarly, name-​sharing was expected to create genuine affective ties, akin to those created by blood. There was even some suggestion that such affection could be ‘forced,’ with naming for patrons popular due to the belief that such people would feel a particular affinity towards their name-​kin that would be directed into practical benefits. This belief was not unexpected given that the family relationship brought with it economic responsibility, enshrined in the line of succession which legally defined the economic rights and duties of parents, children and wider kin with regard to their property after death. As I  explore at length elsewhere, reflecting its legal importance, the concept of ‘natural affection’ was a central idea within inheritance disputes of the eighteenth century, where people vested their claims to property in the language of natural affection and where disputes between family members were argued in terms of their love for each other.49 As a result, in the Early Modern Scottish imagination, natural affection became closely tied to economic obligations and property relationships. This was reflected in the language of property relationships in Scotland, where gifts of property both within and beyond the family used phrases such as ‘a tocken of my affection and attachment’ as a shorthand explanation for the non-​ remunerative nature of the contract.50 Similarly, the term ‘kindness’ implied an economic or political benefit. William Inglis noted to the Earl of Breadalbane that the sheriff of Inveraray disowned the county principle of ‘blood kyndnes’ (nepotism), which would ensure a fair hearing in a legal process.51 David Bethune transferred ‘these lands I  and my predecessors had of your honourable familie’ to Sir Robert Munro of Fowlis due to the ‘repeated instances of your honours favour and kindness,’ wishing him ‘all blessings both of time and eternitie, and

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Emotional lineages 93 that your succession may continue in the possession of their predecessors virtues and estate.’52 Bethune acknowledged their economic relationship in terms of kindness. Moreover, emotion, economy and family were drawn together in Scots through the use of the word ‘kind’ to mean arising from kin. This was embodied in the ‘kindly’ tenancy, referring to a tenancy held in perpetuity over generations. Duncan McGregour and Donald McGregor renounced ‘their alleged kindness to the 6 merkland called Cryachene.’53 Whilst a kindly tenancy referred to ‘kin’ rather than ‘care,’ that kindness implied that both family and affection tied these concepts together, and simultaneously reinforced the economic dimension of both. Emotion was not only embedded within family relationships, but questions of property and lineage that arose from kin connections. Affection became placed at the heart of heritage, explaining and justifying property transactions across generations and, in turn, being generated from those dealings. If contemporary assessments of genealogical practices and a constructed sense of belonging are often critiqued as ‘imagined’ or ‘nostalgic,’ they nonetheless reflect an emotional attachment to familial heritage that was enshrined in its logic.54 Natural affection here was not secondary to the tangible connections of blood, land and name, but understood as a central component of familial lineage and produced through heritage practices.

Emotional lineage and heritage: conclusion Lineage in Early Modern Scotland had three central components:  blood, property and affection. The family could be created through shared blood, shared affection and shared property. Ideally, especially from the seventeenth century, it should be created through all three, with natural affection tying these strands together in a reciprocal relationship. For many, family could also be created through fictive ties that allowed affection and its economic obligations to flourish. These included relationships created through wetnursing, fosterage, name-​sharing and the transfer of property. In all these cases, affection became the central ingredient that marked the familial, whether it was the natural affection that arose between biological parent and child, or that created through spiritual bonds and name-​sharing. Over the course of the eighteenth century, greater legal and cultural emphasis was placed on the biological as the basis of family heritage, downplaying fictive ties in favour of blood at a time when the nuclear family was becoming more culturally important.55 This was reinforced by the law with its narrow biological definition of family, and by a number of cultural commentators that doubted whether affective relationships of any depth could exist between kin that did not share blood.56 Yet, the emotional ties arising from other relationships did not fade quickly, ensuring that affection remained central to family lineage. As family lineage was and is an important dimension of cultural heritage, the centrality of affection to the construction of family placed

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94  Katie Barclay emotion at the heart of national heritage. Affection became a form of heritage transmitted over generations, locating people within the place of family, and through the family, the nation. In heritage studies, emotion has long been used as an explanation for people’s attachment to the past, particularly when those attachments appear ‘irrational,’ such as when people emotionally invest in national myths or imagined connections.57 More recently, the application of affect theory to heritage has sought to explain how the values, meanings and significance of historical objects and places come to create embodied responses in human actors.58 Yet, emotion can not only function as an explanation for our investment in our heritage, but as a form of heritage itself. In many respects, that emotion varies across time and place ensures that all emotion is a form of heritage, taught through socialisation processes. Particular emotions, however, like specific aspects of identity or historical myths, can take on wider cultural significance as a form of heritage worthy of being consciously preserved and celebrated. Emotion can also be evidence of the presence of other forms of heritage, such as blood relationship or name-​sharing. For Early Modern Scots, natural affection was evidence of heritage in action, confirming the ties of blood, property and fictive kinship. Natural affection was the embodied experience of lineage; it was how family heritage was felt and practised by individuals. It was a feeling that tied people into complex networks of relationships, from biological kin to economic connections produced through feudal land ownership, and its intensity could mark the significance of the tie. This gave affection cultural importance within seventeenth-​and eighteenth-​century Scottish society, acting as a marker of connections across a family that could be expansive and extended, or narrow and confined. In a nation-​ state, where particular families, and the concept of family more broadly, remained central to the imagining of itself as a political entity, and where economic structures produced affective connections between social ranks, it also placed emotion at the heart of what it meant to be Scottish. For modern Scots, this heritage of affection continues in their emotional investment in a past closely tied to ideas of family and in the sense of belonging it creates, marked through investments in genealogy, DNA testing and the purchase of clan tartans and memorabilia. The Scottish nation-​state is a product of intimacy.59

Notes 1 Dror Wahrman, The Making of the Modern Self:  Identity and Culture in Eighteenth-​Century England (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2006). 2 Hannah Little, ‘Genealogy as Theatre of Self-​identity:  A Study of Genealogy as a Cultural Practice within Britain since c.1850’ (PhD thesis, University of Glasgow, 2010).

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Emotional lineages 95 3 Anne Denkler, Sustaining Identity, Recapturing Heritage:  Exploring Issues of Public History, Tourism, and Race in a Southern Town (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2007), 11–​12. 4 Katie Barclay, ‘Thinking about Family Legacy’, Women’s History Magazine 61 (Autumn/​Winter 2009): 26–​9. 5 Laurajane Smith, Uses of Heritage (London: Routledge, 2006), 75. 6 For discussion of competing voices in producing heritage, see Emma Waterton and Steve Watson, ‘Heritage as a Focus of Research: Past, Present and New Directions’, The Palgrave Handbook of Contemporary Heritage Research, ed. Emma Waterton and Steve Watson (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 1–​17. 7 Anne-​ Marie Kramer, ‘The Genomic Imaginary:  Genealogical Heritage and the Shaping of Bioconvergent Identities’, MediaTropes 5:1 (2015):  80–​ 104; Catherine Nash, Genetic Geographies: The Trouble with Ancestry (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 2015). 8 Patricia Crawford, Blood, Bodies and Families in Early Modern England (London:  Routledge, 2004); Leanore Davidoff, Megan Doolittle, Janet Fink and Katherine Holden (eds), The Family Story:  Blood, Contract and Intimacy (London: Longman, 1998); Leanore Davidoff, Thicker Than Water: Siblings and Their Relations, 1780 to 1920 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); Kristin Gager, Blood Ties and Fictive Ties: Adoption and Family Life in Early Modern France (Princeton, NJ:  Princeton University Press, 1996); Cheryl Nixon, The Orphan in Eighteenth-​Century Law and Literature:  Estate, Blood and Body (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2011). 9 See, for example, Samuel Johnson, A Dictionary of the English Language (Dublin: W.G. Jones, 1768), unpaginated, ‘blood.’ 10 Ulinka Rublack, ‘Fluxes:  the Early Modern Body and Emotions’, History Workshop Journal 53 (2002): 1–​16. 11 Richard Sugg, Mummies, Cannibals and Vampires:  The History of Corpse Medicine from the Renaissance to the Victorians (London: Routledge, 2011). 12 Sugg, Mummies, 229–​30. 13 Ibid., 110–​11. 14 Lodi Nauta, ‘The Pre-​existence of the Soul in Medieval Thought’, Recherches de Théologie Ancienne et Médiévale 63 (1996): 93–​135. 15 Anthony Fletcher, Gender, Sex and Subordination in England 1500–​ 1800 (London: Yale University Press, 1995), 44–​59. 16 Philip Schwyzer, ‘The Bride on the Border:  Women and the Reproduction of Ethnicity in the Early Modern Britain Isles’, European Journal of Cultural Studies 5:3 (2002):  293–​ 306; Rachel Trubowitz, ‘  “But Blood Whitened”:  Nursing Mothers and Others in Early Modern Britain’, Maternal Measures:  Figuring Caregiving in the Early Modern Period, ed. Naomi Miller and Naomi Yavneh (Aldershot:  Ashgate, 2000); Gail Kern Paster, The Body Embarrassed:  Drama and the Disciplines of Shame in Early Modern England (Ithaca, NY:  Cornell University Press, 1993), 215–​80. 17 Pauline Stafford, ‘Review Article:  Parents and Children in the Early Middle Ages’, Early Medieval Europe 10:2 (2001): 257–​71. 18 An Introduction to Scottish Legal History (Edinburgh: Stair Society, 1958), see chapters on heritable property, moveable property and succession; Nixon, The

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96  Katie Barclay Orphan; Ralph E.  Geisey, ‘Rules of Inheritance and Strategies of Mobility in Prerevolutionary France’, American Historical Review 82:2 (1977): 271–​89. 19 A.W.B. Simpson, Legal Theory and Legal History: Essays on the Common Law (London: Hambledon Press, 1987), 143–​62. 20 James Dalrymple, Viscount of Stair, The Institutions of the Law of Scotland, 2 vols (Edinburgh: Andrew Anderson, 1693, Vol. I), 313. 21 Andrew McDouall, Lord Bankton, An Institute of the Laws of Scotland in Civil Rights, 2 vols (Edinburgh: R. Fleming for A. Kincaid and A. Donaldson, 1751, Vol. II), 331. 22 Marylynn Salmon, ‘The Cultural Significance of Breastfeeding and Infant Care in Early Modern England and America’, Journal of Social History 28:2 (1994): 247–​69. 23 NRS GD3/​ 5/​ 646 Sir Robert Montgomerie of Skelmorlie to John Todd, 25 June 1665; James Kirkwood, The True Interest of Families:  Or, Directions How Parents May Be Happy in Their Children, and Children in Their Parents (London: J. Taylor, 1682), 57. 24 Fowler Walker, A Defence of Infant Baptism: Wherein the Arguments for It from Scripture, Reason, and Antiquity are Briefly Offer’d (London: n.p., 1732), 26. For a discussion of the debates around infant baptism amongst various Puritan sects, see Holly Brewer, By Birth or Consent:  Children, Law, and the Anglo-​ American Revolution in Authority (Durham, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2005), 57–​74. 25 NRS GD3/​5/​646 Sir Robert Montgomerie of Skelmorlie to John Todd, his gardener, 25 June 1665. 26 Toni Bowers, The Politics of Motherhood: British Writing and Culture, 1680–​ 1760 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 158–​61. 27 NRS GD112/​3/​92/​3 Harriet, Lady Glenorchy to Earl of Breadalbane, 23 January [1711]. 28 Alan Macinnes, Clanship, Commerce and the House of Stuart, 1603–​1788 (East Linton: Tuckwell Press, 1996), 13–​14; Alison Cathcart, ‘ “Inressyng of Kyndnes, and Renewing off thair Blud”: The Family, Kinship and Clan Policy in Sixteenth-​ Century Scottish Gaeldom’, Finding the Family in Medieval and Early Modern Scotland, ed. Elizabeth Ewan and Janey Nugent (Aldershot:  Ashgate, 2008), 128–​38. 29 Melissa Hollander, ‘The Name of the Father:  Baptism and the Social Construction of Fatherhood in Early Modern Edinburgh’, Finding the Family in Medieval and Early Modern Scotland, ed. Elizabeth Ewan and Janey Nugent (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 63–​72. 30 NRS GD112/​39/​111/​15 Archibald, Earl of Argyll, to the Laird of Glenorchy, [c.1666]; GD112/​39/​298/​6 John Hough, Bishop of Worcester, to John Campbell, Earl of Breadalbane, 25 September–​3 October 1738. 31 NRS GD112/​39/​227/​20 John Mackenzie of Delvine to John Campbell, Earl of Breadalbane, 21 April 1709. 32 Paul Basu, Highland Homecomings:  Genealogy and Heritage Tourism in the Scottish Diaspora (London: Routledge, 2007). 33 NRS GD160/​244/​1/​1–​2 James Lundin to the Laird of Blair Drummond, 10 January 1746/​7. 34 Simpson, Legal Theory and Legal History, 143–​62.

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Emotional lineages 97 5 Stair, Institutions, Vol. I, 251. 3 36 Stana Nenadic, Lairds and Luxury: The Highland Gentry in Eighteenth Century Scotland (Edinburgh: John Donald, 2007). 37 NRS GD248/​59/​3/​23 Lord Fife to Sir James Grant, 23 August 1783. 38 Earl of Cassillis, The Rulers of Strathspey (Inverness:  Northern Counties Newspaper and Printing and Publishing, 1911), 130. 39 NRS GD44/​ 43/​ 9/​ 23 Laurence Magnolfi to Alexander, Duke of Gordon, 21 June 1720. 40 NRS CC8/​5/​1/​4+5 John Hamilton against Dorothea Burrell and Alexander, John and Dorothea Hamilton her children, 1702. Alexander’s eldest son was called Alexander, while his daughter was named Dorothea after her mother. 41 The Petition of Agnes Myles, Daughter of Andrew Myles, Baxter in Pitlessie, and Agnes Annan, Daughter of John Annan, Sometime Tenant in Kirktoun of Cults (s.n., 1760), 2. 42 NRS GD170/​2111 Arabella Campbell to Mary Campbell, 11 August 1806. 43 NRS GD406/​1/​7268 Charles, Earl of Selkirk to James, Duke of Hamilton, 5 December 1709. 44 Steven Murdoch, Network North:  Scottish Kin, Commercial and Covert Associations in Northern Europe, 1603–​1746 (Leiden: Brill, 2006). 45 For a discussion of seventeenth-​and eighteenth-​century Scots investments in producing themselves as part of national fictions, see Susan Broomhall, ‘Renovating Affections:  Reconstructing the Atholl Family in the Mid-​Eighteenth Century’, Spaces for Feeling: Emotions and Sociabilities in Britain, 1650–​1850, ed. Susan Broomhall (London: Routledge, 2015), 52–​78. 46 Katie Barclay, ‘Natural Affection, Children and Family Inheritance Practices in the Long-​Eighteenth-​Century’, Children and Youth in Medieval and Early Modern Scotland, ed. Elizabeth Ewan and Janey Nugent (Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2015), 136–​53. 47 Stephen Baskerville, ‘The Family in Puritan Political Theology’, Journal of Family History 18 (1993):  157–​77; Naomi Tadmor, The Social Universe of the English Bible:  Scripture, Society and Culture in Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 48 Stair, Institutions, I, 432. 49 Barclay, ‘Natural Affection’. 50 NRS GD93/​343, David Bethune to Sir Robert Munro of Fowlis, 13 May 1734; Barclay, ‘Natural Affection’. 51 NRS GD112/​39/​225/​9 William Inglis to [Earl of Breadalbane], 7 February 1709. 52 GD93/​343. 53 NRS GD112/​ 2/​ 53/​ 6 Contract between Alexander Balfour fiar of Boghall on one part, and John McGregour in Bridge End and Patrick McGregour in Corrychrombie, 1 November 1597. 54 Basu, Highland Homecomings; Catherine Nash, Of Irish Descent:  Origin Stories, Genealogy, and the Politics of Belonging (New York: Syracuse University Press, 2008). 55 Katie Barclay, Love, Intimacy and Power: Marriage and Patriarchy in Scotland, 1650–​1850 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2011), 77–​9. 56 Barclay, ‘Natural Affection’. 57 See, for example, the discussion of authenticity as the emotion of heritage in Britta Timm Knudsen, Anne Marit Waade, ‘Performative Authenticity in Tourism

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98  Katie Barclay and Social Experience:  Rethinking the Relations between Travel, Place and Emotion’, Re-​investing Authenticity:  Tourism, Place and Emotions, ed. Britta Timm Knudsen and Anne Marit Waade (Bristol:  Channel View Publications, 2010), 4–​9; R.  Celeste Ray accounts of the irrational but genuine emotional attachment to Scottishness in Highland Heritage:  Scottish Americans in the American South (Durham: University of North Carolina Press, 2001). 58 Divya P. Tolia-​Kelly, Emma Waterton and Steve Watson (eds), Heritage, Affect and Emotion: Politics, Practices and Infrastructures (London: Routledge, 2017). 59 Michael Herzfold, Cultural Intimacy:  Social Poetics in the Nation-​ State (New York: Routledge, 1997).

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6  ‘Let me weep for such a feeling loss’ The emotional significance of Shakespeare’s heritage Susan Broomhall

On 11 August 1596, the only son of Anne Hathaway and William Shakespeare, 11-​ year-​ old Hamnet, was buried in Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-​upon-​Avon. There was no direct male heir to assume the coat of arms that John Shakespeare had once sought, and that his son William had, it seems, renewed in October 1596, just after Hamnet’s death. Whatever Shakespeare’s own sentiments, today the sense of loss that is represented by New Place is surely rendered more palpable by the obvious absence of built remains at the site. For Shakespeare’s last home, the proud reflection of his lifetime of achievement on the London stages and in which he died in 1616, no longer stands  –​demolished by a subsequent owner in 1759. The space that is left to be interpreted for modern visitors is powerfully structured through emotions about the relative strengths and weaknesses of blood, stone and land in representing Shakespeare in his own time and ours. The purchase of New Place … is associated with great sadness. His only son, Hamnet, died in August 1596 at the age of 11. However grand the house, there was now no male heir to carry on the Shakespeare name.1 Perhaps initially Shakespeare felt he could cope best with Hamnet’s death not by being in places associated with his son, but by moving away from them. In the year after Hamnet’s death, he took his family to a new and bigger house, New Place. (Smith, 2011, 22–​3) A theme of absence runs through interpretations of Shakespeare in literary scholarship and in these heritage sites, particularly during ‘the lost years,’ for which we have no records of his actions –​from what he did in the intervening years after leaving Stratford before records trace him to London or, indeed, precisely when he returned and began to live at New Place. There has been a powerful urge to fill these gaps, to imagine and narrate possible answers in emotional terms, driven perhaps by individual responses to a sense of loss. In this essay, I explore modern narratives of emotions, in literary, historical scholarship and heritage practice, to Shakespeare’s own concern

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100  Susan Broomhall for heritage and to the relevant texts that can provide our evidence. Here I examine rhetorical, affective and social performances of emotions attached to Shakespeare, from his participation, and that of contemporaries, in literary, social, ritual and material practices such as inheritance behaviours, testamentary composition, bequests and literary production.2 Beyond the immense literary and historical scholarship that surrounds Shakespeare, a thriving heritage tourism industry has been constructed from a series of lands and material objects associated with the bard in and around Stratford-​upon-​Avon.3 Interest in ‘the affective’ has focussed the attention of museological and heritage scholars to analysis of a range of curatorial strategies that develop conceptual, sensory and physical relationships between visitors, certain spaces and material objects in order to create affective states, moods and empathy or emotional reaction.4 Engagement through affect and emotions, in heritage domains as anywhere, is an inherently performative act that constructs self and identity.5 If emotions are themselves understood as cultural and social practices that change over time, then affective approaches to heritage interpretation that function through modern audience emotional engagement do so within what are likely to be very different emotional regimes, concepts and practices to those of the historical populations who inhabited the physical, material sites being visited. The selves being constructed through affective heritage are modern visitors, but they do so, particularly in a domain such as the sites managed by the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, as responses to narratives and interpretations of historic individuals, their objects and spaces. I thus analyse both the emotional meanings of blood heritage for the Early Modern society of which Shakespeare was part as it was mapped onto stone and land, and for modern societies in heritage tourism precincts associated with the bard. *** How were houses and homes connected as concepts and physical, material and living spaces to notions of lineage and heritage for Early Modern individuals of Shakespeare’s class; that is, beyond the elite dynastic families where titles, status and identity were embedded in land-​holdings? How were such ideas translated or transformed by women and men of the rising middle classes, men such as the farmer’s son, John Shakespeare of Snitterfield, who had married Mary Arden, the youngest daughter of his father’s wealthy landowner in Arden? With Mary, John raised at least five children to adulthood from their home on Henley Street, rose through the mercantile ranks as a glover and whittawer to become bailiff of Stratford-​upon-​Avon and prepared the documentation to seek his own coats of arms. If we want to understand the feelings of his son William in regards to the sites in and around Stratford that are associated with him, we need to understand the emotional freight of concepts and words such as heritage, house and home in his work, and how these were connected. This can be challenging because Shakespeare’s language has contributed powerfully to how we understand,

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Shakespeare’s heritage 101 express and feel about such concepts in an English-​language tradition, but at the same time it must be situated in its Early Modern context.6 The meaning of heritage through the Middle Ages and Early Modern period was strongly connected to notions of inheritance.7 In Shakespeare’s own dramatic works, the term is used just twice. In one example, it can be understood and conceptualised as lineage or ancestry in blood. In All’s Well that Ends Well, the Clown considers the attraction of marriage, musing, ‘In Isbel’s case and mine own. Service is no heritage:  and I  think I  shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue o’ my body; for they say barnes are blessings’ (I, 3). The Clown’s concern is for a continuity of blood and memory expressed through reproductive display. By contrast, in the partially authored Pericles, the term applies to a material object, armour, as part of the protagonist’s material inheritance from his father:  ‘And though it was mine own, part of my heritage, Which my dead father did bequeath to me’ (II, 1). The expression of a dynastic heritage transferred through lands and blood was a long-​held capability of England’s elite families. Heritage, in this sense, was certainly a phenomenon that pre-​dated the Early Modern period. At this time, however, a rising middle-​class community was becoming increasingly capable of expressing familial identity through material means, in both artefacts to be passed between generations (such as the family Bible) or in built heritage and lands. Interestingly, in the example above, it is the meanest of characters in social status, the Clown, who expresses desire for an ongoing identity through the word ‘heritage.’ Shakespeare’s own recent family history demonstrated precisely these features  –​his maternal ancestors, the Ardens, held sufficient lands and properties to divide and transfer to subsequent generations, creating cultural and real capital from which the less-​well-​off John Shakespeare was able to profit for his professional and personal identity in Stratford-​upon-​ Avon. At the height of his reputation and profession in the town, John had sought to accrue the symbolic and material sign of status that was formerly an elite preserve, a coat of arms, that would at once recognise the family’s lineage and serve the same into the future.8 Shakespeare’s use of the term house is far wider but demonstrates in some examples a conceptual link to these meanings of heritage. House meant, in many usages, the dynastic blood community in past, present and future contexts. Thus, Frederick in As You Like it laments: I would thou hadst been son to some man else. The world esteem’d thy father honourable, But I did find him still mine enemy. Thou shouldst have better pleas’d me with this deed, Hadst thou descended from another house. (I, 2) So too Bertram, the protagonist of All’s Well That Ends Well, deeply concerned with perceptions of his identity and status, offers his troth to his

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102  Susan Broomhall would-​be lover at the play’s conclusion, saying:  ‘Here, take my ring:  My house, mine honour, yea, my life, be thine’ (IV, 2). And Diana, in her turn, rejects Bertram’s advances, echoing his usage of the term: ‘My chastity’s the jewel of our house, Bequeathed down from many ancestors’ (IV, 2). Heritage and house in these senses are both imbued with powerful social meaning and feeling. In Shakespeare’s plays, these influential dynastic ideologies make blood-​as-​lineage a driving force for (and sometimes an obstruction to) passion, dramatic action, motivation and social alliances. *** Evidence of Shakespeare’s own behaviours suggest a strong attention to his own heritage —​both in terms of the narrative construction of his descent and future legacy. While his father John had prepared documentation for the College of Arms in 1568, his application does not appear to have been successful before a renewed attempt was made in 1596, when his by-​ then-​successful son William was residing in the capital. The documentation compiled at that time describes the respective pedigrees of the Shakespeare and Arden families that come together in William’s immediate ancestry. That John Shakespere, nowe of Stratford vppon Avon in the Counte of Warwik Gentleman, Whose parent great Grandfather and late Antecessor, for his faithefull & appoved service to the late most prudent prince king H 7 of famous memorie, was advaunced & rewarded with Landes & Tenementes geven to him in those partes of Warwikeshere where they have continewed bie some descentes in good reputacon & credit. And for that the said John Shakespere, having maryed the daughter & one of the heyrs of Robert Arden of Wellingcote in the same countie, And also produced this his Auncient cote of Arms heretofore Assigned to him whilest he was her maiesties officer & Baylife of the Towne.9 John Shakespeare and his son were hereafter gentlemen, but their gentility was, it seems, perceived to be ambiguous in their own time. The case of ‘Shakespeare the player’ was one among a number cited in 1602 as evidence of the abuse of the grant of arms that had to be defended by the College.10 The newly gained arms were actively employed in the construction of the family from William’s lifetime and into the future. They featured on successive funeral monuments of William and his descendants and in the seal of his elder daughter and heir, Susannah.11 Scholars have assumed that Shakespeare wrestled with the emotions wrought by the death of his only son, as well as its consequences for his legacy. As Peter Ackroyd writes: There is every reason to suppose that Shakespeare hastened from Kent to Stratford, for the funeral on 11 August. … Did Shakespeare feel any sense of guilt, or responsibility, at having left his family in Stratford?

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Shakespeare’s heritage 103 And how did he respond to his grieving wife, who had been obliged to care for the children without his presence? These questions cannot be answered, of course. … He may, or may not, have become inconsolable. (Ackroyd, 2005, 270) No evidence indicates, however, that Shakespeare was immediately aware of his son’s death or that he returned for his burial. Remaining records suggest that Shakespeare was travelling with his company of players near Faversham in Kent at the time of Hamnet’s death.12 Various interpretations have been made regarding the impact of Hamnet’s demise on Shakespeare’s later works, most notably Hamlet and King John. Stephen Greenblatt has suggested that ‘Shakespeare must have still been brooding in late 1600 and early 1601, when he sat down to write a tragedy whose doomed hero [Hamlet] bore the name of his dead son.’13 Harold Grier McCurdy, reading guilt into Shakespeare’s treatment of emotions regarding Arthur in King John, Mamillus in The Winter’s Tale and the disappearance/​reappearance of Viola’s twin brother Sebastian in Twelfth Night infers that Shakespeare ‘felt responsible to some degree for his death … absent from home much or all the time during the years preceding the boy’s death, emotionally neglecting his family if not willfully, and perhaps willfully.’14 This view has been recently extended by Keverne Smith, who offers a detailed analysis of how the plays from the late 1590s onwards reveal the journey of a man who, like most bereaved parents, struggled to make sense of his devastating loss, and who provided himself with fictional resurrections of seemingly dead children as a way of introducing other possibilities into his life story, and of enduring his grief. (Smith, 2011, 26) Richard O. Wheeler senses an ‘undertow of sadness that runs through all Shakespeare’s comedies from the mid-​ 1590s,’ although he suggests that it was not ‘likely that Shakespeare had spent a great deal of time with Hamnet prior to the boy’s death, that he would have known him in the way Jonson may well have known his son Benjamin, who presumably had lived in London in the same household with his father.’15 Indeed, Graham Holderness has recently observed that scholars have treated Jonson’s poetic tribute to his son as ‘an unwritten poem by Shakespeare, or a proxy for the emotion Shakespeare must have felt, but chose not to express (or at least not to publish).’16 In addition to its impact on Shakespeare’s writing, scholars largely share a view that Hamnet’s death must also have dealt a heavy blow to the father’s personal identity. Ackroyd opines that ‘Shakespeare had lost his only son, the recipient of his inheritance. … He had lost the image of himself.’17 R.W. Chambers sums up this argument: ‘Coming of a bourgeois family, with hopes of achieving gentility, he had restored the family fortunes, and was just about

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104  Susan Broomhall to realize his ambition when, in 1596, he suffered the cruelest blow which I can imagine falling upon any man. His only son died.’18 Wheeler suggests that Shakespeare’s history plays, largely about matters of sons and royal inheritance, may have sharpened the blow.19 The purchase of New Place, along with the grant of arms, have typically been seen as key elements in Shakespeare’s gentrification ambitions. Certainly, this merchant’s house, the second-​largest in Stratford, was one of a number of acquisitions in land and stone that Shakespeare made from the proceeds of his London successes.20 By the time he wrote his will in 1616, William was the sole surviving male heir of his parents, his younger brothers Gilbert, Richard and Edmund having all predeceased him. Only his younger sister Joan remained alive. Nonetheless, Shakespeare went to some lengths to preserve his legacy for prospective future male blood heirs in bequeathing the greater part of his accumulated fortune to his elder daughter Susannah and her husband, the physician John Hall, as his co-​heirs. Shakespeare’s will made explicit and repeated allowance for the possibility of a male heir, insisting that the estate pass to the first sonne of her bodie lawfullie yssueing & to the heires Males of the bodie of the saied first Sonne lawfullie yssueinge, & for defalt of such issue to the second Sonne of her bodie lawfullie issueing and to the heires Males of the bodie of the saied Second Sonne lawfullie yssueinge, & for defalt of such heires, to the third Sonne of the bodie of the saied Susanna Lawfullie yssueing and of the heires Males of the bodie of the saied third sonne lawfullies yssueing, And for defalt of such issue, the same soe to be & Remaine to the ffourth ffyth sixte & Seaventh sonnes of her bodie lawfullie issueing, one after Another, and to the heires Males of the bodies of the said fourth fifth Sixte & Seaventh sonnes lawfullies yssueing, in such manner as yt ys before Lymitted to be & Remaine to the first second and third Sonns of her bodie & to their heires Males; And for defalt of such issue the said premisses to be & Remaine to my sayed Neece [granddaughter Elizabeth] Hall & the heires males of her bodie Lawfullie yssueinge, and for defalt of issue to my daughter Judith & the heires Males of her bodie lawfullie issueinge; And for defalt of such issue to the Right heires of me the saied William Shackspere for ever.21 This advantageous inheritance for Susannah, her husband and their heirs, male and female, may potentially have been determined years earlier as part of settling on her an attractive portion at her 1607 marriage. Although bestowing a far smaller inheritance on his younger daughter Judith, Shakespeare made sure here too that his goods and monies would flow directly to those of his blood. In February 1616, Judith had married the local Stratford vintner Thomas Quiney, a man whose reputation was soon tarnished by his excommunication in late March at the ecclesiastical court

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Shakespeare’s heritage 105 in Stratford for carnal copulation with one Margaret Wheeler, who had died in childbirth that month along with her child.22 Alterations from the January draft of his will suggest that Shakespeare changed the terms of his filial bequests to ensure that his daughter Judith and her children, rather than her husband Quiney, were the rightful recipients. The provision ‘vnto my sonne in L[aw]’ was struck out in the revised document of March 1616 and his daughter’s name written into the text.23 And Judith, who produced Shakespeare’s only grandsons, in her turn renewed her own claims to her father’s heritage by naming her eldest son, born in November 1617, Shakespeare.24 Furthermore, Shakespeare gave allowances and clothes to his only living sister, Joan, married to the hatter William Hart, and to her three sons, the eldest of whom was also named William. In so doing, Shakespeare bestowed the bulk of his estate on the three women who through themselves and their children shared and would continue a Shakespeare bloodline. Shakespeare’s uneven distribution of his inheritance between his daughters has prompted considerable analysis of the bard’s paternal feelings. For example, Katherine Duncan-​Jones opines: In response to what may have been a tearful appeal from Judith, perhaps even seconded by the unloved Anne herself, Shakespeare, gravely ill, angry and utterly exhausted by the whole wearisome business of dictating the will, consented only to the most minimal bequest, a bequest which was more a put-​down than a sign of love. (Duncan-Jones, 2001, 315–​16) What Shakespeare had effectively created through his will was an entail that would keep his accumulation of lands and property intact through subsequent generations. This appears to be how his actions were interpreted by contemporaries. A  1620 notation to an extract from a deed of exchange of a parcel of 105 acres in Old Stratford records that ‘Mr Combe sold it to Will[ia]m Shackspeare who had one daughter and gave the same land to w[i]‌th his daughter in marryage to Mr Hall.’25 Other known conveyance records indicate that in May 1602, Shakespeare had purchased 107 acres of land from William Combe, suggesting that these lands are the same referred to in the 1620 notation.26 The substantial gift made at Susannah’s 1607 marriage may have counter-​balanced the correspondingly generous arrangement made by physician William Hall for his younger son, John. Hall appeared to have disinherited his elder son, Dive, to make his younger son John his chief legatee.27 Shakespeare’s actions for Susannah at her marriage and in her will appear to have effectively done likewise, making Susannah, if not his ‘one daughter,’ certainly the one blood heir to his estate. It is clear, however, that other near-​contemporaries, not interested in legal and financial considerations, were well aware of his two living daughters. For instance, John Ward, who became vicar of Stratford in 1662, was certainly aware of Shakespeare’s two daughters, whom he mentioned by name

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106  Susan Broomhall in his diaries.28 However, the extract records and its notation were produced in the interests of legal transactions regarding land, a context in which Susannah’s status as Shakespeare’s singular heir was of prime relevance. Susannah’s prioritised status as Shakespeare’s co-​heir, with her husband Hall, was also emphasised in other dynastic settings. For example, the Latin epitaph on Anne Hathaway’s 1623 funeral monument, possibly composed by Hall, reinforced the idea of a single heir, presented as it was in the voice of a daughter who thanked her mother for her life and milk (‘ubera, tu mater, tu lac, vitamque dedisti’) without recognition of her mother’s attention to either of her two other siblings. John Hall also visibly claimed his status as Shakespeare’s legal heritor on his 1635 funeral monument, noting that HEE MARR: SUSANNA, YE DAUGH & coheire TER, OF WILL. SHAKESPEARE, GENT.29 Duncan-​Jones interprets the interpolated ‘coheire’ as recognition of Judith but it seems more likely to recognise Hall’s own legal status as joint heir with his wife Susannah, as attested by Shakespeare’s will.30 In so doing, Hall projected a construction of himself through his connection to the bard. Hall’s Latin epitaph eulogises his ‘fidessima coniux,’31 and his gravestone displays the Hall arms impaling those of Shakespeare, as did Susannah Shakespeare’s in her turn. The first husband of their daughter Elizabeth, Thomas Nash, who died in 1647 and was also buried in Holy Trinity Church, Stratford, also included the Shakespeare arms.32 Interestingly, Susannah Shakespeare’s own English epitaph made for her funeral monument in 1649 did not emphasis her legal status as heir but rather a spiritual and intellectual inheritance from her father: Witty above her sexe, but that’s not all, Wise to salvation was good Mistris Hall, Something of Shakespare was in that, but this Wholy of him with whom she’s now in blisse…33 *** Moreover, although Shakespeare may not have been a father who enjoyed both ‘a son and friends,’ as Pompey references in Antony and Cleopatra (II, 6), he did demonstrate and sustain a number of important male networks in his will that marked out another legacy for his self-​image. These were emotional connections forged through social practices, and rituals associated with key life stages.34 Among these bequests, he passed the ceremonial sword that came with the grant of arms to Thomas Combe, the son of local Stratford family and friends.35 His uncle, John Combe, had earlier left five pounds to Shakespeare in his will, made in 1613 (and had sold with his uncle, William Combe, the land comprising Susannah’s probable wedding

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Shakespeare’s heritage 107 gift, in 1602).36 As Tara Hamling reminds us, the distribution of goods through wills ‘suggests that the context of an object’s passage through hands and time carried an emotive charge.’37 Shakespeare left the baker Hamnet Sadler, the likely namesake of his son, along with his wife Judith Staunton, 26 shillings, 8 pence to purchase a ring.38 These were memorial rings, one of a series of Protestant practices of private rites that emerge in the wake of the removal of Catholic ritual practices of death. Such objects marked strong evidence of affections as well as memory.39 Likewise, Shakespeare gave money to godson William Walker and ‘to my ffellowes John Hemynge Richard Brubage & Henry Cundell, xxvj.8. viij.d. a peece to buy them Ringes.’40 Shakespeare’s will thus attested to concerns to maintain his identity among not only those in his immediate Stratford surrounds but also his London associates. He had been in his turn remembered in the wills of these colleagues; the 1605 will of actor Augustine Philips left ‘my Fellow William Shakespeare a thirty shillings peece in gould’ among other gifts of money to other men.41 Shakespeare’s witnesses were also men with firm and tested connections to his family. Apart from Hamnet Sadler, another was Robert Whattcott who had testified for Susannah as plaintiff in her slander case against John Lane Jr before the consistory court at Worcester Cathedral in July 1613.42 In these ways, Shakespeare’s will enacted emotional practices of gift-​giving and memory-​making through objects among varied circles of male sociabilities that also reflected and helped to sustain a legacy of his identity. If Shakespeare held a reputation among colleagues ‘that in his writing, (whatsoever he penn’d) hee never blotted out line,’ the same was not true of his will.43 The blotted and interpolated document, mostly likely written by a clerk of his solicitor Francis Collins, has been subject to considerable emotional interpretation.44 Sadler’s name, for example, was added where Richard Tyler had been scratched out, prompting Kate Pogue to speculate on the waning nature of the Sadler-​Shakespeare friendship45: ‘It would appear from this ambivalent entry in his will that William Shakespeare and Hamnet Sadler, so close in their youthful days, had drifted apart as their lives changed.’46 The evidence for Shakespeare’s life and that of his contemporaries suggests though that the textual emotional positioning of the will reinforced social and spiritual emotional practices of sociabilities in his lifetime. Chief among these are the probable evidence for Shakespeare’s integration in baptismal practices in which he would become spiritual kin to a number of families in Stratford and in London. In doing so, he participated in acts that gave another form of longevity to one’s identity, carrying his name beyond the reach of his own life. Apart from William Walker, whom Shakespeare identified as a godson in his will, a son of Hamnet and Judith Sadler’s was named William (b.1598), while Stratford town-​clerk Thomas Greene, who appeared to be living at New Place in 1609, also had a son William and a daughter Anne.47 Of Shakespeare’s London colleagues, John Heminge, actor in the King’s Men, and joint owner with Shakespeare,

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108  Susan Broomhall among others, of the Blackfriars Gatehouse, had a son William in 1603,48 and Richard Burbage baptised a daughter Anne in 1607 and a son William in 1616.49 *** Despite Shakespeare’s own provisions for male heirs, today it is his female kin who frame the series of sites that form the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust.50 Other than Shakespeare’s Birthplace (the home on Henley Street that he shared with his wife and children after their marriage) and New Place, the sites in the Trust are currently named in relation to their connections to women associated with Shakespeare –​Mary Arden’s Farm, Anne Hathaway’s Cottage (the home of the Hathaway family, in which Anne grew up) –​or are connected via his daughter and granddaughter –​ Hall’s Croft (the home of his daughter Susanna, married to physician John Hall) and Nash’s House (the home of his granddaughter, Elizabeth Hall, whose first marriage was to Thomas Nash). Interestingly, this ancestral line and set of acquisitions follows Shakespeare’s own design for the inheritance of his properties. Notably, the home in which Judith Shakespeare and her husband Thomas Quiney lived, which still stands in Stratford, at the corner of High Street and Bridge Street, does not form part of the Trust. It was known as ‘The Cage,’ from where Quiney ran his vintner’s shop and sold tobacco.51 It would thus be the surnames of Arden, Hathaway and, ultimately, Hall and Nash, ‘in whom my house’s name must be digested,’ to quote the French courtier Lafeu from All’s Well that Ends Well, scheming for the marriage of his daughter with the hero Bertram (V, 3). These names insist upon a narrative of familial relationships to inform an interpretive strategy of land and stone. Each site participates to construct an overarching heritage of emotions that situates Shakespeare’s origins, development and posterity. Some are strongly framed through a sequence of particular emotions that sustain their distinct narratives of households, families and love. Visitors to Mary Arden’s Farm learn of the ‘childhood home of Shakespeare’s mother,’ and are encouraged to both ‘imagine Mary’s life there with her seven sisters!’ and to ‘[e]‌xperience the daily routine, skills and crafts that the young William would have known from visits to his grandparents in the 1570s.’52 The Birthplace ‘offers a tantalising glimpse into Shakespeare’s early world’ —​‘This is where the Shakespeare story began.’53 At Anne Hathaway’s Cottage, visitors are invited to ‘Discover where the young William Shakespeare courted his future bride Anne Hathaway at her picturesque family home.’54 The residences of Shakespeare’s female descendants, however, develop their interpretation without direct references as particular emotional spaces. At Hall’s Croft, visitors can ‘[w]ander through the elegant home of Susanna Shakespeare and her husband, Dr John Hall’ with talks offering ‘an insight into the wealthy lifestyle of Shakespeare’s eldest daughter.’55 At Nash’s House, named after Elizabeth Hall’s first husband, Thomas, ‘a well preserved Tudor building’ has ‘the ground floor furnished as it would have been in Nash’s day.’56 As

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Shakespeare’s heritage 109 for New Place, heritage of another kind ensured its destruction. In 1759, its owner, the Reverend Francis Gastrell, ordered the house demolished, tired of visitors seeking souvenirs from Shakespeare’s final home. Just ten years later, Stratford’s town councillors approached the renowned actor David Garrick to assist in the funding of a statue, leading him to inaugurate the Shakespeare Jubilee, the first stage in Stratford’s renewed relationship with the heritage of the bard.57 Current redevelopment of the site invites visitors to ‘walk in Shakespeare’s footsteps,’ to ‘trace the footprint of his family home in a contemporary landscape setting’ with new interpretation and artworks aiming to ‘evoke a sense of family life.’58 Largely in the absence of Early Modern artefacts, New Place is narrated as a place of visitor imagination. *** This essay has explored modern narratives about emotions in Shakespeare’s life  –​within literary and historical scholarship to heritage tourism  –​ through extant literary archival, physical and material texts and interpretations of its meaning for his sense of heritage. From grandiose, deliberate gestures of self-​making and dynastic identity in buildings, lands and arms to the more everyday world in which Shakespeare experienced joys and grief, complex modern narratives of the intertwined emotions embedded in family identity, memory-​making and heritage inform our understanding of Shakespeare the man, and the sites associated with him. Shakespeare’s son, Hamnet, becomes a touchstone of loss within the Shakespeare site narratives and much scholarship, perhaps ‘higher than both in blood and life’ (Anthony and Cleopatra, I, 2). Sites, acts and texts associated with the bard are regularly interpreted as emotional evidence for Shakespeare personally and for modern readers and visitors, foregrounding narratives of absence, loss, grief and sorrow. Modern heritage in this sense seems often to seek to collapse the historical distance between lives past and visitors present, with sites and objects acting as the material conduit between them and emotions as a seemingly shared set of understandings and practices that bridge the divide of time. This essay argues, however, that these Early Modern emotions, whether expressed in dramatic and poetic works, testaments, notarial, legal or financial documentation, and as acts such as baptismal practices, money-​lending or gift-​giving, are highly situated displays that can only be understood in their historic social and cultural context. We need to historicise emotional expressions and behaviours, therefore, because a more complex and enriching understanding of Early Modern emotional behaviours, and of Early Modern emotional behaviours of heritage in particular, can be revealed. By combining literary analysis with consideration of how Shakespeare, his friends and family applied heritage as inheritance, house and dynastic longevity as emotional concepts, in ritual forms of sociability, memory-​making, baptismal and naming practices, in documentary contexts such as wills and funeral monuments and in acts of property transactions and gift-​giving, we can see Shakespeare’s continued, indeed continual, interest to assert a legacy

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110  Susan Broomhall of his identity among friends and colleagues, and to subsequent generations. An alternative interpretation in modern heritage sites that speaks to this evidence might teach us to listen to Shakespeare in rather new ways and hear very different stories.

Notes 1 Pre-​recorded audio from the City Sightseeing Bus Tour for Stratford-​upon-​Avon, April 2013. 2 I draw on a wide range of disciplinary perspectives. On emotional and affective behaviours as practice, see 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 51:2 (2012): 193–​220; on emotions and spaces, Andreas Reckwitz, ‘Affective Spaces:  A Praxeological Outlook’, Rethinking History:  The Journal of Theory and Practice 16:2 (2012):  241–​58; on emotions as social practice and identity, Sara Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion (New York: Routledge, 2004); and on emotions and material culture, Oliver J.T. Harris and Tim Flohr Sørensen, ‘Rethinking Emotion and Material Culture’, Archaeological Dialogues 17:2 (2010): 145–​63. 3 Analysed in some detail by Kate Rumbold and Kate McLuskie, Cultural Value in Twenty-​First-​Century England: The Case of Shakespeare (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2014); and in preceding studies by Kate Rumbold, ‘From “Access” to “Creativity”: Shakespeare Institutions, New Media and the Language of Cultural Value’, Shakespeare Quarterly 61:3 (Fall 2010):  313–​ 36, and ‘Shakespeare, Authenticity and Intangible Heritage’ Capturing the Essence of Performance: The Challenges of Intangible Heritage, ed. Nicole Leclercq, Laurent Rossion and Alan R. Jones (Brussels: Peter Lang, 2010), 421–​30. 4 See, for example, Laurajane Smith and Gary Campbell, ‘The Elephant in the Room:  Heritage, Affect and Emotion’, A Companion to Heritage Studies, ed. W.  Logan, M Nic Craith and U.  Kockel (Oxford:  Wiley-​Blackwell, 2015), 443–​60; Laurajane Smith, ‘Changing Views? Emotional Intelligence, Registers of Engagement and the Museum Visit’, Museums as Sites of Historical Consciousness:  Perspectives on Museum Theory and Practice in Canada, ed. V.  Gosselin and P.  Livingstone (Vancouver:  UBC Press, 2015), 101–​21; Andrea Witcomb, ‘Using Immersive and Interactive Approaches to Interpreting Traumatic Experiences for Tourists: Potentials and Limitations’, Heritage and Tourism: Place, Encounter, Engagement, ed. Russell Staiff et al. (Oxford: Routledge, 2013), 152–​ 70; Laurajane Smith, ‘Affect and Registers of Engagement: Navigating Emotional Responses to Dissonant Heritage’, Representing Enslavement and Abolition in Museums: Ambiguous Engagements, ed. Laurajane Smith, Geoffrey Cubitt, Ross Wilson and Kalliopi Fouseki (New  York:  Routledge, 2011); Andrea Witcomb, ‘On Memory, Affect and Atonement: the Long Tan Memorial Cross(es)’, Historic Environment 24:3 (2012):  35–​42; Andrea Witcomb, ‘Remembering the Dead by Affecting the Living: The Case of a Miniature Model of Treblinka’, Museum Materialities:  Objects, Engagements, Interpretations, ed. Sandra H.  Dudley (New  York:  Routledge, 2010), 39–​ 52; Kate Gregory and Andrea Witcomb, ‘Beyond Nostalgia: The Role of Affect in Generating Historical Understanding at Heritage Sites’, Museum Revolutions: How Museums Change and Are Changed,

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Shakespeare’s heritage 111 ed. Simon J. Knell et al. (Oxford: Routledge, 2007), 263–​75; the essays in Open Museum Journal: Contest & Contemporary Society: Redefining Museums in the 21st Century 8 (2006). http://​pandora.nla.gov.au/​pan/​10293/​20061101-​0000/​ www.amol.org.au/​omj/​volume8/​volume8_​index.html (accessed 25 November 2016); Sherene Suchy, ‘Museum Management: Emotional Value and Community Engagement’, New Roles and Missions of Museums. International Committee for Museum Management 2006 Symposium. Chinese Association of Museums. International Council of Museums 24 (2006). www.intercom.museum/​documents/​ 3-​1Suchy.pdf (accessed 25 November 2016); Kit Messham-​ Muir, ‘Affect, Interpretation and Technology’, Open Museum Journal 7 (2005). http://​pandora.nla.gov.au/​pan/​10293/​20061031-​0000/​amol.org.au/​omj/​volume7/​volume7_​ index.html (accessed 25 November 2016); Fiona Cameron, ‘Transcending Fear. Engaging Emotions and Opinions: A Case for Museums in the 21st Century’, Open Museum Journal 6 (2003). http://​pandora.nla.gov.au/​pan/​10293/​20040121-​0000/​ amol.org.au/​omj/​volume6/​volume6_​index.html (accessed 25 November 2016). 5 Judith Butler, Gender Trouble:  Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (London: Routledge, 1999). See also interpretation of performativity explored by Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice’, and William M. Reddy, in the context of ‘emotives’ in his The Navigation of Feeling: A Framework for the History of Emotions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). For heritage, see Michael Haldrup and Jørgen Ole Bœrenholdt, ‘Heritage as Performance’, The Palgrave Handbook of Contemporary Heritage Research, ed. Emma Waterton and Steve Watson (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 52–​68; Gaynor Bagnall, ‘Performance and Performativity at Heritage Sites’, Museum and Society 1:2 (2003): 87–​103. 6 See R.S. White, ‘ “False Friends”: Affective Semantics in Shakespeare’, Shakespeare 8 (2012): 286–​99. 7 ‘heritage, n.’, “heritage, n.”. OED Online. December 2018. Oxford University Press. http://www.oed.com.ezproxy.library.uwa.edu.au/view/Entry/86230?rskey =btCMJ9&result=1&isAdvanced=false (accessed 28 March 2016). 8 See E.K. Chambers, William Shakespeare: A Study of Facts and Problems, Vol. 2 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1930), 18–​32. 9 Draft from the College of Arms Ms. R.  21, p.  347 (17 November 1599–​24 March 1600), cited in Chambers, William Shakespeare, Vol. 2, 21. 10 See S.  Schoenbaum, William Shakespeare:  A Documentary Life (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975), 171–​3; and on the College’s defence of this grant, see Chambers, William Shakespeare, Vol. 2, 22. 11 Chambers, William Shakespeare, Vol. 2, 23. 12 Germaine Greer, Shakespeare’s Wife (London: Bloomsbury, 2007), 197. 13 Stephen Greenblatt, ‘The Death of Hamnet and the Making of Hamlet’, NY Review of Books 51.16 (21 October 2004). www.nybooks.com/​articles/​2004/​ 10/​21/​the-​death-​of-​hamnet-​and-​the-​making-​of-​hamlet/​ (accessed 25 November 2016). See also his book version Greenblatt, Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare (New York: W.W. Norton, 2004), 287ff. 14 Harold Grier McCurdy, The Personality of Shakespeare:  A Venture in Psychological Method (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1953), 180. 15 Richard O.  Wheeler, ‘A Death in the Family:  The Loss of a Son and the Rise of Shakespeare Comedy’, Shakespeare Quarterly 51 (2000): 127–​53, esp. 147 and 135.

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112  Susan Broomhall 16 Graham Holderness, ‘His Son Hamnet Shakespeare’, The Shakespeare Circle: An Alternative Biography, ed. Paul Edmondson and Stanley Wells (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 104. 17 Peter Ackroyd, Shakespeare:  The Biography (London:  Chatto and Windus, 2005), 270. 18 R.W. Chambers, ‘The Jacobean Shakespeare and Measure for Measure’, Proceedings of the British Academy 23 (1937): 135–​92, 137. 19 Wheeler, ‘A Death in the Family’, 141. 20 See Chambers, William Shakespeare, for details of these transactions. 21 Struck out text as per the original; see Chambers, William Shakespeare, Vol. 2, 173. 22 Schoenbaum, William Shakespeare,  240–​1. 23 Facsimile and transcription in Chambers, William Shakespeare, Vol. 2, 169–​80. 24 He died in May 1618. Schoenbaum, William Shakespeare, 241. 25 Màiri Macdonald, ‘A New Discovery about Shakespeare’s Estate in Old Stratford’, Shakespeare Quarterly xlv:1 (1994): 87–​9, 87. 26 Chambers, William Shakespeare, Vol. 2, 107–​11. 27 See William Hall’s will, reproduced in Frank Marcham, William Shakespeare and His Daughter Susannah (London: Grafton, 1931), 20–​3. 28 Chambers, William Shakespeare, Vol. 2, 250. 29 Ibid., 11. 30 Duncan-​Jones, Shakespeare, 309. 31 Chambers, William Shakespeare, Vol. 2, 11. 32 Ibid., 12. 33 Ibid., 12. 34 See Susan Broomhall, ‘Gender, Age, and Identity’, A Cultural History of Death in the Renaissance 1450–​ 1650, ed. Gordon Raeburn and Nathaniel Warne (London: Bloomsbury, forthcoming). 35 Kate Pogue, Shakespeare’s Friends, 2nd edn. (Santa Barbara, CA:  Praeger, 2006), 28. 36 Greer, Shakespeare’s Wife, 286; Chambers, William Shakespeare, Vol. 2, 107–​11; 127–​41. 37 Tara Hamling, ‘Household Goods’, Early Modern Emotions: An Introduction, ed. Susan Broomhall (London: Routledge, 2016). 38 Chambers, William Shakespeare, Vol. 2, 172. 39 See some discussion in Jennifer C.  Vaught, ‘Nightmarish Visions of Grief: Lamentable Men in Shakespare’s Winter’s Tale and Walton’s Life of Dr.  John Donne’, in her Masculinity and Emotion in Early Modern English Literature (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 188–​9. 40 Chambers, William Shakespeare, Vol. 2, 172. 41 Ibid., 73. 42 Ibid., 12. 43 Quoting Ben Jonson, Timber (1623) in E.K. Chambers, William Shakespeare, Vol. 2, 210. 44 Chambers, on the production of the will, William Shakespeare, Vol. 2, 174. 45 Pogue, Shakespeare’s Friends, 20. 46 Ibid., 20. 47 See Robert Bearman, ‘Thomas Greene: Stratford-​Upon-​Avon’s Town Clerk and Shakespeare’s Lodger’, Shakespeare Survey 65 (2012): 290–​305.

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Shakespeare’s heritage 113 8 Ackroyd, Shakespeare, 398. 4 49 C.C. Stopes, Burbage and Shakespeare’s Stage (London: La More Press, 1913), 140. 50 Since writing, a new property, Harvard House, has also been acquired. 51 Schoenbaum, William Shakespeare, 240. 52 Shakespeare Birthplace Trust website. www.shakespeare.org.uk/​visit-​the-​houses/​ mary-​ardens-​farm.html (accessed 4 April 2016). 53 Ibid. 54 Shakespeare Birthplace Trust website. www.shakespeare.org.uk/​visit-​the-​houses/​ anne-​hathaways-​cottage-​amp-​gardens.html (accessed 4 April 2016). 55 Shakespeare Birthplace Trust website. www.shakespeare.org.uk/​visit-​the-​houses/​ halls-​croft.html (accessed 4 April 2016). 56 Shakespeare Birthplace Trust website. www.shakespeare.org.uk/​about-​us/​new-​ place-​the-​next-​chapter/​about-​new-​place-​nashs-​house.html (accessed 4 April 2016). 57 See Christian Deelman, The Great Shakespeare Jubilee (London: Joseph, 1964); Paul Tankard, ‘The Stratford Jubilee’, Facts and Inventions: Selection from the Journalism of James Boswell (New Haven, CT:  Yale University Press, 2014), 17ff; Vanessa Cunningham, Shakespeare and Garrick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). 58 Shakespeare Birthplace Trust website. www.shakespeare.org.uk/​about-​us/​new-​ place-​the-​next-​chapter.html (accessed 4 April 2016).

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Part II

Affective histories of blood, stone and land in Australia and the Pacific

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7  My heritage –​it is not just about sticks and stones –​it is timeless, precious and irreplaceable Patsy Cameron

Through my mother’s line I am directly related to two powerful Aboriginal warrior leaders:  Mannalargenna, who belonged to the Country of the Coastal Plains nation in the far northeast, and Tongalongter, who belonged to the Country of the Oyster Bay nation on the east coast of the island we now call Tasmania. My ancestral grandmothers  –​Pleenperenner, Wyerlooberer, Nimeranner (or Teekoolterme) from the Coastal Plains nation, and Pollerelbrener from the Oyster Bay nation –​married Europeans who called themselves Straitsmen and established their homelands on the small islands of eastern Bass Strait from the second decade of the 1800s. It is through these four female forebears that I trace my unique Tasmanian Aboriginal heritage –​a heritage that spans some 2000 generations of human history. Tasmania’s First People were the most southerly living humans on Earth during the last Ice Age. The formation of at least nine separate nation territories made up of about 100 clans probably coincided with the separation of the Tasmanians from the Victorians about 14,000 years ago. When the Ice Age ended and the rising seas formed the present-​day coastline, the Tasmanians survived in absolute isolation from the rest of humanity over the next 10,000  years. When the crews on several British ships dropped anchors and folded their sails in the calm waters of the Derwent River in 1803, the First Peoples’ lifeworld would be irrevocably altered. The social and cultural impacts on the land and its people that invasion brought reverberate in the minds and hearts of Tasmanian Aborigines today, as does their timeless, precious and irreplaceable existential heritage1 as First Peoples of this land. This is my story. My story, like all stories of belonging, is grounded in, and by, emotion and the emotional links to concepts of blood, stone and land intertwined in Tasmanian Aboriginal heritage. Until very recently, one principle has been a central plank of Western academic study: the imperative for a radical and absolute separation of reason and emotion. This has been the hallmark of not only scientific fields, but many of the disciplines more closely aligned to the humanities (history, sociology, cultural geography). The identification and/​or selection of things with ‘heritage value,’ therefore, have most

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118  Patsy Cameron often been made in a compulsory ‘emotion-​free’ zone; not only is emotional engagement unwelcome, but is seen as highly detrimental to the validity of the study. I am extremely interested in the recent emergence of the field of emotional geography that has broken away from this tradition. Practitioners in this new field stress the importance of emotion and emotional affect on human understandings of being in the world, and therefore to geographical, sociological and historical study. Emotions, they claim, are ‘intimate, indeed indispensable components of almost every worldly understanding’2 and ‘a vital ingredient in the very composition of the world as a world.’3 I  hold that the sensibilities of this new field can make a significant contribution to our understandings of the meanings and focus of Aboriginal Heritage discussed below. One definition of heritage that does capture emotional connections is that of the Burra Charter.4 According to the Burra Charter: ‘Places of cultural significance reflect the diversity of our communities, telling us about who we are, and the past that has formed us and the Australian landscape. They are irreplaceable and precious.’ Also, heritage consists of ‘those things from the past which are valued enough to save for the people of tomorrow.’5 Emotional engagement and connection is fundamental to the assignment of value and to the endurance and protection of values over time. Against a background of imperial and empirical value and authority, the Tasmanian Aboriginal heritage story exemplifies the fundamental significance of emotion to the protection of things and places that are culturally significant to us and, in this case, to the rest of the world. Very soon after first contact Tasmanian Aboriginal peoples demonstrated their conservationist impulse to protect the places they valued and with which they had emotional connection. The lifeworld of Aboriginal families living on remote island homelands were impacted by the arrival of people from the outside who had no consideration for the protection of the land or sustaining its resources. These impacts of exploitation were also experienced in other places across Tasmania over time. Key moments include: a) in the late 1800s, Aboriginal families on the Bass Strait Islands were petitioning the Tasmanian Government not only for the return of their muttonbird islands, but for the protection of the islands from hard-​hoofed animals because they destroy the nesting burrows, damage sensitive flora and fauna and spread exotic weeds. b) Broad community protests against the proposed damming of our rivers (for example, the Gordon River below the Franklin River) and the damming of the King River in the 1990s that created Lake Burbury near Queenstown. The damming of the King River inundated a number of precious ancient sites. Insidious legislative processes reversed the protected laws on listed Aboriginal heritage places and things, and provided the permits needed for the destruction of these heritage sites. c) The repatriation to Aboriginal communities of human remains and cultural objects from Australian and overseas institutions. d) More recently, protest and lobbying by some members of the Aboriginal community to

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My heritage 119 relocate the construction of a bridge over a specific site on the Jordan River where artefacts believed to be dated from 42,000 years ago were excavated. e) The current battles being played out include objections to the draft legislation that is being considered to replace the antiquated Tasmanian Relics Act, and mining in the Tarkine Conservation Area on the northwest coast. f) An injunction in the High Court of Australia by the Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre (TAC) to stop the opening of tracks to off-​road vehicles through sensitive coastal areas of the Arthur Pieman Conservation Area on the northwest coast. As alluded to earlier, most ‘authoritative’ fields of investigation informing our understanding of what is and what is not culturally significant have rationalism and empiricism as core elements of their methodology. The identification of ‘heritage,’ that is, the identification of things –​places and objects –​worthy of notice, preservation and conservation, is often tackled by anthropologists and archaeologists in the same way. This is evident in: a) ‘material heritage’ displayed in museums, galleries and in field reports by Aboriginal Heritage consultants who are employed to conduct site surveys prior to development; b) identified sites –​that is, usually specific places recorded on a register. This is also evident in the challenge to define ‘heritage’ in the new Tasmanian Aboriginal Heritage legislation (2017), which replaced the Aboriginal Relics Act. It has been ten years in the making and still there is no meaningful departure from classifications laid out in the antiquated Relics Act, where, for example, stone tools, human remains and petroglyphs are ‘things’ that can be touched and weighed and tested constitute heritage. Of course, I am not suggesting that these are not important elements of our heritage, but I, along with others, believe there is more meaningful understanding of what constitutes Aboriginal heritage. The new Aboriginal Heritage Act still considers intangible heritage as de facto tangible heritage and has relegated intangible heritage to the Significant Values Assessment process in order to understand its place, form and how it can be protected. Aboriginal heritage is timeless, precious and irreplaceable and it manifests itself in tangible and intangible forms. While some, but not all, tangible forms of heritage are relatively easy to identify under current legislation, it is the intangible or unseen aspects of heritage that prove problematic when it comes to recognition, acceptance and protection. Aboriginal people often exhibit great joy and emotion when reconnecting with their ancestral homelands. We sense the presence of our ancestors in the land and see Country through a different cultural lens. Thus, I am drawn to John West’s following description of an Aboriginal leader visiting the First Basin near Launceston in 1847.

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120  Patsy Cameron A chief accompanied the commandant to Launceston in 1847. At his own earnest request he was taken to see the Cataract Basin of the South Esk … It was a station of his people; precisely the kind of spot which gypsies, on the ‘business of Egypt’ would choose for their tents. As he drew nigh, his excitement became intense: he leaped from rock to rock, with the gestures and exclamations of delight. So powerful were his emotions, that the lad with him became alarmed, lest the associations of the scene should destroy the discipline of twelve years exile: but the woods were silent: he heard no voice save his own, and he returned pensively with his young companion.6 (West, 1971, 273) What is striking about the leader’s visit to the place where his people once lived is the strength of his emotions as he danced on the rocks and listened intently as his song echoed between the narrow cliffs and through the gorge grounds. The lad’s alarm at what he witnessed suggests that this leader’s emotions were more intensely expressed here than they had been during 12 years of exile at Wybalenna on Flinders Island. For there is no doubt that the lad would have witnessed ceremony, song and dance on many occasions during the years on the island. The leader returning to his own Country, and the emotion associated with that, portrays to me how reconnecting with the ancestral land impacted on them in the past and it still does to many Aboriginal people in the present day. The realisation that there was no one left in the area also had a devastating emotional impact on the man and boy, for it confirmed that the people had been eradicated from all their territorial lands by this time. Tasmanian Aboriginal people continue to feel the loss that came with the brutality of force during colonisation, which remains buried under layers of time and settler intervention. We continue to commemorate this loss and celebrate our emotional links to Country that strengthens our resolve to protect and maintain our cultural heritage for future generations. In his role as chair of the Aboriginal Land Council of Tasmania (ALCT), Clyde Mansell stated the following in a letter to The Examiner on 14 August 2013: ‘Its not just about sticks and stones … Our heritage is about a right of connection and celebration with a cultural landscape … Our heritage embodies the traditional knowledge of spirits, place, land use and ecology.’ Further, he concluded that ‘It is about how a cultural landscape is valued for its ability to offer an opportunity for reconnection, understanding and expression of our relationship … Surely these values must be protected and held in reserve for future generations for everyone to enjoy and celebrate.’7 Battlelines had been drawn between the state government and the Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre (TAC) to prevent the building of a bridge over a site on the Jordan River on the outskirts of Hobart. Mansell’s political reasoning was that the significance of heritage is completely destroyed by ‘development.’ Mansell stated that the construction of the bridge over

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My heritage 121 the site, where cultural deposits have been dated to 42,000 years BP, ‘completely overshadows the landscape and destroys any ability of interpretation.’ Whilst I  agree with the crux of his statement about what heritage means to Tasmanian Aboriginal people and what should be enshrined in the new Tasmanian Aboriginal Heritage legislation that is currently being drafted to replace the old Relics Act, the perimeters of my understandings of Aboriginal Heritage have changed in recent times and have shifted to be more profound. I firmly believe that our heritage continues to manifest itself even if farmlands and infrastructure, towns, dams, roads and bridges intersect the landscape. Modification of the landscape by surface development should not completely destroy the spiritual essence of Country. Whether it is surface layers that have been modified through development, or in the form of a mountain like the majestic one that dominates Hobart, the essence of their cultural associations continues to exist. My view is that the Jordan River is culturally significant –​not only at the point where the bridge crosses the river and in the trench that revealed ancient material culture, but from its source to the sea, like a dreaming track or song line that mainland Aboriginal people believe exist. The river came into existence when the Ancestral Beings cut it with their stone tools and formed its margins. It is therefore a cultural entity and moving the bridge up-​or down-​river would not have changed its course. I  believe that the sacred connectedness and interconnectedness of places, landmarks, environments and things that are seen and not seen (tangible and intangible), in most situations, cannot be absolutely erased if they are overshadowed by development, as the physical object can be erased but not the meaning that dwells in its place. To explore this notion further, I  want to refer to the beginning of the editor’s introduction to Aboriginal Connections with Launceston Places, by historian Shayne Breen: The site where Launceston stands is a place of great antiquity. It was and remains an Aboriginal place. Two hundred years of British colonisation have obscured but not erased the Aboriginal past. That past will always be there because it is etched in the land, visible to those with the eyes to see.8 (Breen and Summers, 2006, 11) I agree with Breen’s statement. Launceston is a large city at the headwaters of the Tamar River in the north of the state. It was an important gathering place where clans lived, hunted and gathered for thousands of years. Before the city was built, the area was clothed in tea trees along the river margins and the drier high ground was covered with gums and open understory. The river floodplains teemed with ducks and swan and the hinterlands beyond the river were the grassy hunting grounds for kangaroo, wallaby, emu and wombat. We know the clans camped, danced and sang where the

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122  Patsy Cameron streets and buildings of Launceston now exist. I  have spent many hours taking visitors on walks through the nearby Cataract Gorge to share my perspectives of this ancient place and its cultural significance to Aboriginal people in the past and the present. This is a place where Country speaks to me as a living entity. The river that runs through the gorge is nuanced in spirit and, I believe, female in shape and mood. Her headwaters are in the Ben Lomond Ranges and she meanders across the plains that once belonged to the Stoney Creek nation to eventually converge with the Tamar River at Launceston. The river is known by three Aboriginal names:  Mangana Lienta (translates to big water) as it rises from its source and flows through the Fingal Valley, Mooronnoe as it meanders beside the towns of Perth and Hadspen and Pleepertommerla (toomme translates to fast-​flowing) through the Cataract Gorge.9 A  dam built a few kilometres from the First Basin now tames the fast-​flowing waters but when the floods come it is a spectacular sight to behold! To me this is a spiritual place that evokes strong connections to the Coming-​Into-​Being time, a place where we can celebrate ancient connections to the land and its resources. It is a place where the tangible world meets the intangible world. Of course, there are examples in Tasmania where tangible heritage is destroyed but not the connected memory, spiritual or intangible heritage, for it does not prevent us from remembering it through modern-​day interpretation or commemoration of its existence. One example comes to mind of heritage being slowly but surely eradicated, at Waratah on the northwest coast. During the early 1800s, local clanspeople identified two mountains as mother and daughter, or Partennamana, which refers collectively to Mt Pearse and Mt Bischoff10 (Figures 7.1 and 7.2). Mineral exploration in modern times discovered that the blood of the daughter (Mt Bischoff) runs as a rich vein of tin ore and over many decades since the miners arrived her lifeblood is being mined into absolute oblivion. A precious heritage will be irreversibly lost. Her mother, Dackeeler, renamed Mt Pearse, standing a few kilometres away, remains intact as no ore body has been detected in her veins.11 I wonder what intangible connections flow between them and whether the mother feels the pulse in the daughter’s veins weaken as time goes by. However, when I last visited the area, it was evident that forestry logging operations had removed trees that once stood up to the base of the mother mountain and I was shocked to see the extent of mining operations of the daughter mountain. I  am saddened that we do not know more about the story of the mother and daughter mountains. I  also believe that in many cases when there is a secret sacred aspect associated with them, this could only be passed on through appropriate protocols and our colonisation history has prevented this from continuing. However, I am of the view that the heritage of these mountains is significant and sacred, with links that go back into the mists of time when the Ancestral Beings gave them life. I am also

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Figure 7.1 Mother Mountain (Mt Pearse). Photo by Hilary Burden (2015).

aware of other examples across Tasmania and Australia where Aboriginal sacred places have been considered expendable by extractive mining industries as a commodity to be dug up, crushed, and weighed in dollars to be exported as a valuable resource. The irreplaceable cultural heritage value to the First People is expendable. Stories about Aboriginal spiritual associations with the land and the concept of sacred places are treated with scepticism when it comes to protecting intangible heritage verses economic development. One mystery that has pervaded my curiosity is the existence of stories of Tasmanian ‘little people’ that are recorded in the language. Nanginya and noilwanah are Aboriginal words from the Oyster Bay and Southeast nations to describe elf or fairy-​like people that were recorded by Joseph Milligan in the mid-​1800s. He noted in his list of words and transcriptions beings that were ‘fond of children and dances in the hills, after the fashion of Scotch (sic) fairies.’ Another example of similar beings is Murambukania lowana, which translates to ‘Witch or female goblin, said to be clothed with grass or fibrous bark.’12 As children growing up on Flinders Island, my siblings and cousins were regularly reminded that Kuti kina (an Aboriginal spirit)

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Figure 7.2 Daughter Mountain (Mt Bischoff). Photo by Hilary Burden (2017).

would get us if we misbehaved or went somewhere that was out of bounds. I imagine Kuti kina to be an island equivalent to Murambukania lowana and the ‘bogeyman’ in European stories. It seems that stories of Spirit Beings were an integral part of the lifeworld of Tasmanian Aborigines, who retold them from generation to generation from the deep past, and when we learn about such stories they become part of our living heritage in the present day. Tasmania has Aboriginal cultural history that is some 40,000 years old, but more importantly our ancestors told that it began with the intangible. In the 1830s, several important leaders, including my ancestral grandfather Mannalargenna, told their Coming-​Into-​Being stories, handed down over many thousands of generations. It seems that it was universally believed across Trouwunna (Mannalargenna’s language name for Tasmania) that two Ancestral Beings in the form of stars, from eastward of Orion’s Belt, walked across the sacred pathway of the Milky Way to this island. Here, they created all things out of the earth. In my ancestral grandfather’s language, Pompermehowlle and Pinerterrinner formed the mountains, cut the rivers with their stone tools and made the fauna, flora and the people out of the ground. The Ancestral Beings gave the people fire by rubbing their hands together in the northeast, striking two flints together in the southeast and coughing it up out of the throat in the northwest. They showed the people

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My heritage 125 how to make their material culture, including tools out of stone and where to locate sacred ochre  –​earth’s blood as precious as gold. We know that these stories are true because Mannalargenna said that his father told him so.13 Consequently, I believe that Mannalargenna’s creation story had been handed down from father to son and mother to daughter and is possibly tens of thousands of years old. This being so, these stories testify to why we believe we are the oldest and continuous living culture on Earth. According to Woorrady, who was from Bruny Island, the two Ancestral Beings were brothers and after they finished their work one of the brothers, Moiheene, went to remain and live with his wife and children in the rugged southwest region. After a long time had passed, Moiheene died and he was transformed into a large rocky outcrop that can still be seen today standing off the southwest coast near Louisa Bay. His brother Dromedeena went back into the sky and can be seen as a star that rises low in the southern sky each night. There are many stone monoliths scattered throughout the island whose stories remain hidden from us because they were never recorded or passed on, but their physical form evokes emotional and spiritual relationships between us and Country. I hold that these cultural landmarks retain the memory of the Ancestral Beings who created them. In the Blue Tier there are many granite monoliths in the shape of whales, turtles, dolphins, killer whales and dugong, all of which represent mammals that once walked on the land (Figure 7.3). Their presence is truly remarkable and a Yuin Elder from the south coast of New South Wales who recently visited the area was overwhelmed with emotion when he was shown these majestic sea creatures, which are also an integral part of his living cultural heritage.14 They are also located close to a rock shelter and markings on the nearby rocky outcrops are described as kangaroo and emu tracks.15 To walk on Country where the ancestors once travelled is very evocative. To touch the granite forms, see the imprints of ancient animals and birds and enter a sacred rock-​shelter where secret ceremonies once took place reaches deep into my spirit. We often conduct smoking and ochre ceremonies here to reconnect our links to cultural practices and the land and to do so regenerates our spirit and heals us as well as Country. Along with heritage that manifests in the shape and content of Country, the living flora and fauna is also considered important cultural heritage. Woorrady told that his people from Bruny Island were related to the Stringy Bark gumtree (Eucalyptus delegatensis) and the kangaroo. Tongalongter’s people of Great Oyster Bay on the east coast were directly related to the honeysuckle tree (Banksia marginata) and Mannalargenna said that his clan was directly related to the mighty black peppermint gum (Eucalyptus amygdalina).16 Therefore, peppermint gums and Banksia trees are my kin too. I find that a particular tree belonging as family to a whole nation of people is remarkable, and it may be that these relationships are because they are also made up of the stuff that the Ancestral Beings used to create all things in their own geographic location.

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Figure 7.3 Granite monolith in the Blue Tiers, Turtle Rock. Photo by Patsy Cameron (2012).

I live on my ancestral nation lands in the far northeast of Tasmania and often travel a short distance to the clan Country of my forebears at Tebrakunna (Cape Portland). Mannalargenna, who was born about 1775, became a revered leader of the Pairrebeena or Trawlwoolway clan. I look across to Swan Island where he was passing on a ship in mid-​October 1835, en route into exile at Wybalenna on Flinders Island. It breaks my heart to recall that this was the last time he would see Country. In his journals, George Augustus Robinson recorded what he witnessed that day. When we were off Swan Island Mannalargenna the chief gave evident signs of strong emotion. Here opposite to this island was his country; Swan Island was the place I brought him to when I removed him from his country. He paced the deck, looked on all the surrounding objects, fresh collections came to his mind. He paced to and fro like a man of consequence, like an emperor. Round his head he had tied a slip of kangaroo skin, which added greatly to his imperial dignity. At one time he took the map in his hand and looked on it intently, took the spy glass and looked through it.17 (Plomley, 1987, 297)

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My heritage 127 Shortly after Mannalargenna arrived at the place of exile, he cut off his long ochred hair and beard, and died on 4 December 1835.18 It is over 180 years since Mannalargenna said goodbye to his Country. Robinson’s observations offer some insight into what Mannalargenna was expressing but he didn’t really understand the extent of what the leader was feeling. He knew every bay, hill, river, mountain, valley, tree, plain and hunting ground by name. He had danced and sang stories about the cosmos and land and sea of Country. He had lived on this land for 55  years, and I  wonder what he would think if he looked at a map and then to his land to see how the names and features have been colonised in recent times. Mannalargenna’s Country is my Country and his essence will forever remain etched in the landscape for he knew when he died, he would return to his own Country in spirit. Country holds my integrity, identity and wholeness as a human being. It invokes intense feelings of joy, sorrow and sometimes anger for many Aboriginal people, especially when they return to their homelands. Given that the Ancestral Beings created all tangible things that we see, touch and feel, as well as things intangible, the whole of Tasmania’s geographical, geological and ecological representations are primarily cultural places and things. The natural environment exists because of their Aboriginal heritage values, not the reverse. In the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area Draft Management Plan (TWWHA),19 it is stated that ‘The tendency to marginalise and limit Aboriginal values to specific sites reflects a lack of awareness of the TWWHA as an Aboriginal landscape’ (2014, 85). The draft plan further states that: The use of the term ‘wilderness’ to describe the TWWHA is problematic for Aboriginal people. They believe the term wrongly implies that the TWWHA is a landscape empty of human culture … (and) … lends weight to a denial of the full extent of Aboriginal occupation and survival in the TWWHA.20 (2014, 91) The above quotes are a valid response to the view held by some that the natural values of the World Heritage Area are of greater significance to the world than Aboriginal values. The objection to the removal of the word ‘wilderness’ from the TWWHA is an example of the belief by some that the area should be locked up to inhibit any form of development or harvesting of the natural resources within its boundary. This position denies Aboriginal people access to their ancient Country and harvesting/​collecting their cultural resources. It also denies the existence of Aboriginal people, who lived in the region for at least 20,000 years. I agree with historian Hamish Maxwell-​Stewart, who argues that the notion of naming places is a form of colonisation, that it validates ownership of the land by the British and it seems that this practice of colonising vast areas of Tasmania using terms

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128  Patsy Cameron like ‘wilderness’ continues the practice to disenfranchise Aboriginal people of their ancient and continuing connections to that Country. A positive way to resolve this dilemma for Aboriginal people would be to give the area an Aboriginal name to focus on the land being integrally linked to Aboriginal heritage. Paradoxically, Aboriginal occupation within the area now known as the TWWHA is well documented in the archaeological record and a great number of significant sites are registered on the Tasmanian Aboriginal Sites database. Most of these specific sites that were occupied by humans throughout the Ice Age are located within extensive limestone cave systems in the remote regions of the southwest. Unlike the existence of open grasslands during the Ice Age, the region is now encapsulated in rainforests and dense understory. I have been privileged to walk in the footprints of the ancestors through this Country to visit several sacred caves that contain hand stencils smeared with red ochred paint. Wargata Mina, which translates in Tasmanian Aboriginal language to My Blood, previously known as Judds Cavern, is one of the caves I have visited (Figure 7.4). The cave, located within the southwest region of the World Heritage Area in the Cracroft River Valley, contains a gallery of red ochred hand stencils

Figure 7.4 Ochred hand stencils, Wargata Mina cave. Photo by Josephine Flood (2000).

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My heritage 129 made by adults and children and smears of ochre that had been mixed with human blood and plastered on the limestone walls. Josephine Flood argued that the presence of human blood ‘is strong evidence of the ritual nature of this site.’21 To stand in the utter darkness of a cave where ancient hand stencils were placed during the Ice Age is a remarkable and moving cultural experience. It takes one’s breath away for fear that breathing might damage this unique hidden world and these ceremonial marks made possible 2000 generations ago. Flood remarked that: These cryptic signatures in blood and red ochre on the rock are a symbolic statement about identity, religion and land, reaching down across the centuries. Their similarity to early cave art in Europe and elsewhere bears witness to the evolution of humankind on a global scale and the cultural elements common in human behaviour. (Flood, 2000, 127) More recently, I made three separate visits to another cave in the southern region and each time I was overcome with intense emotions of joy and grief. As my headtorch shone beams of soft light across a sunken floor to highlight a gallery of reddened hand stencils beyond, I became aware of being watched by many eyes. It was then that I saw on the ceiling of the cave families of crickets waving their antenna and sensed a presence beside my left ear. It was a beautiful cave spider that sparked my imagination. I was joyful to know that the ancestors of these incredible creatures, who spend their entire lives in absolute darkness, were present when my ancestors made their Ice Age visits to these sacred underworld places. My emotions turned from joy to grief for, as I walked out into the surrounding rainforest, I wondered if I would be able to return again sometime. When George Augustus Robinson recorded his observations of the First Tasmanians collecting then grinding ochre to mix into a red paint using marrow extracted from the long bones of the kangaroo and emu, he did not know about the ancient ochred hand stencils hidden deep inside caves in the remote southwest. It could be that the extensive rainforests that covered the region at the end of the last Ice Age provided a barrier to Robinson’s journeys. Or perhaps the Aboriginal people who guided his expeditions into the bush deliberately led him away from sacred places such as these. It seems appropriate that I conclude this chapter exploring the significance of using red ochre to Tasmanian Aboriginal people in the distant past to express their spiritual connections to the land. In the present day I continue to collect, grind and mix ochre into a greasy paint for ceremonial activities, to welcome people to Country and to mark features in the landscape. Ochre comes in many colours. Red ochre is considered to be a sacred element as the blood of the earth.22 In the past, women were responsible for gathering ochre and sharing it with the men, and this gender division is still practised

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Figure 7.5 Mannalargenna. Watercolour by convict artist Thomas Bock (1832). © The Trustees of the British Museum.

today. As depicted by convict artist Thomas Bock in 1832, Mannalargenna applied the red paint all over his body, including dressing his long hair and beard (Figure 7.5). When asked why he had reddened his body to attend the funeral of the Aboriginal clan leader Maulterheerlargenna in Launceston in 1832, he replied ‘What do you wear fine clothes for?’23 The combination of grease and ochre is not only for ritual and ceremony to honour the dead, but it also has a practical application for warmth, to waterproof the body, to deter biting insects and to protect from the burning rays of the sun. Because it is believed to be a product of creation activities of Ancestral Beings who came from the sky world, we consider ochre a sacred material from the earth and use it to honour Country, to evoke the memory of our ancestors, to protect us from bad spirits and to welcome people to Country (Figure 7.6). This chapter, in applying an emotional lens to the ancient lifeworld of the First Tasmanians, broadens understandings of the meanings and significance

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Figure 7.6 Cousins Nannette Shaw and Mandy Quadrio gathering ochre on a roadside cutting. Photo by Patsy Cameron.

of heritage and heritage practices. This lens creates a bridge, enabling future generations to find a way to reconnect to and preserve a rich and dynamic legacy left by the ancestors. I  hold that Aboriginal cultural heritage, both tangible and intangible, is holistic and embodied in the DNA of Country; it is land, blood and stone that are the components of the elements and constituents of Country. Those elements were here from the very beginning when the Ancestral Beings were the central force in the foundations of heritage that encapsulates Tasmania in the present day. It is the past and present,

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132  Patsy Cameron physical and spiritual, embodied and affective in all of its manifestations, that needs to be understood and valued. The cultural significance of Aboriginal Heritage is not just about sticks and stones, for it is, as the Burra Charter proclaims, ‘embodied in the place itself, its fabric, setting, use, associations [and] meanings.’ It is up to all of us to preserve the timeless, precious and irreplaceable in a modern world where, in many instances, greed and economics take precedence over a more profound acknowledgement of the value of cultural significance.

Notes 1 I use this terminology ‘existential heritage’ to underpin Mannalargenna’s belief that Aboriginal people have been here on this island since our beginning time when all things, including the rivers, mountains, plants, animals and people, were created by Ancestral Star Beings who came from beyond the Milky Way. 2 Mick Smith, Joyce Davidson, Laura Cameron and Liz Bondi, ‘Introduction: Geography and Emotion  –​Emerging Constellations’, Emotion, Place and Culture, ed. Mick Smith et al. (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), 4. 3 Ibid., 2. 4 The Burra Charter is considered a most significant document of the last 30 years for the conservation of places of cultural significance in Australia. It was first adopted at Burra in 1979 as a set of principles to create a nationally accepted standard for heritage conservation practice in Australia. The Burra Charter was revised in 2013 to reflect a more nuanced understanding of the theory and practice of cultural heritage management 5 Burra Charter, 2013. 6 John West, The History of Tasmania, ed. A.G.L. Shaw (Sydney:  Angus and Robertson, 1971), 273. 7 The Examiner, 14 August 2013. 8 Shayne Breen and Dyan Summers, Aboriginal Connections with Launceston Places (Launceston: Launceston City Council, 2006), 11. 9 John Taylor, Tasmanian Place Names –​The Aboriginal Connection (Launceston: John A. Taylor, 1995), 76, 97, 107. 10 N.J.B. Plomley, Friendly Mission, The Tasmanian Journals and Papers of George Augustus Robinson 1829–​ 1834 (Hobart:  Tasmanian Historical Research Association, 1966), 882–​6. 11 Taylor, Tasmanian Place Names, 94. 12 H. Ling Roth, The Aborigines of Tasmania (Halifax:  F. King & Sons, 1899), xxiv, lxvi. 13 Plomley, Friendly Mission, 399, 402–​3. 14 Pers Comm., Gloria Andrews, February 2016. 15 Patsy Cameron, Grease and Ochre: The Bending of Two Cultures at the Colonial Sea Frontier (Launceston: Fullers, 2011), 21–​5. 16 Mary Cameron (ed.), Guide to Flowers and Plants of Tasmania (Sydney: Reed and the Launceston Field Naturalists Club, 1986), 19, 45, 57; Plomley, Friendly Mission, 369.

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My heritage 133 17 N. J. B. Plomley (ed.), Weep in Silence: A History of the Flinders Island Aboriginal Settlement with the Flinders Island Journal of George Augustus Robinson, 1835-​ 1839 (Hobart: Blubber Head Press, 1987), 297. 18 Plomley, Friendly Mission, 312. 19 The Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area Plan was launched in 2017. 20 Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area (TWWHA) Management Plan (Draft) (Hobart:  Department of Primary Industries, Parks, Water and Environment, 2014), 85, 91. 21 Josephine Flood, The Riches of Ancient Australia: An Indispensable Guide for Exploring Prehistoric Australia (St Lucia, QLD: University of Queensland Press, 1990),  322–​3. 22 For further information about Aboriginal use of ochre, see Bruising the Red Earth:  Ochre Mining and Ritual in Aboriginal Tasmania, ed. Antonio Sagona (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1994). 23 Plomley, Friendly Mission, 594.

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8  The crimson thread of medievalism Haematic heritage and transhistorical mood in colonial Australia Louise D’Arcens

This chapter will examine the link between the cultural politics and the emotional anatomy of colonial Australian ‘haematic medievalism,’ especially as it was expressed through the heraldic fetish in colonial society. As an emotionally charged concept, heritage is frequently associated with the sense of cultural ownership emerging from a recognition of continuous presence within a geographical or physical environment, the protection of sites or objects whose value lies in their relationship to a particular past, or the sustained performance of inherited rituals and traditions. A sense of heritage has also manifested, however, in the more intimate domain of the human body, in the sense that people have perceived within themselves signs and characteristics linking them biologically to the distant past. This sense has frequently been registered in the compelling metaphor of blood. As a metaphor, blood has the advantage of having a biological referent; but it exceeds this referent, straying into a rich cultural, discursive and affective terrain. Here ethnic, historical and political resonances converge in an ineffable but powerfully felt emotional experience of what Dallen J.  Timothy and Jean Kay Guelke call ‘personal heritage.’1 With blood as its vehicle, the past flows through the body, cycling ceaselessly back to the heart. For proof of the power of this metaphor in colonial (or, perhaps more aptly, pre-​federated) Australia it is difficult to surpass the rhetorical force and economy of Henry Parkes’ invocation, in a speech delivered at the 1890 Melbourne Federation Conference, of the ‘crimson thread of kinship [that] runs through us all.’2 The kinship being referred to in this speech is that between Anglo-​Australians, and between Anglo-​Australians and their cousins in England. Coming from the proclaimed ‘Father of Australian Federation,’ Parkes’ metaphor is significant for revealing that English ethnocentrism was, in Russell McGregor’s apt phrase, ‘neither inimical nor incidental to Australian nationalism,’3 and that Australia’s move towards political autonomy did not signify for its advocates a rupture from what Parkes had earlier described as the ‘consanguineous political organism’ of the Empire.4 If, as David Lowenthal has argued, ‘heritage’s essential role is husbanding community, identity, indeed history itself,’5 then Parkes’

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Transhistorical mood in colonial Australia 135 evocation of blood as a symptom of an enduring Anglo-​Australian ethnic kinship is a forceful instance of haematic heritage creation. Parkes’ phrase is, of course, also noted for its ethnocentric exclusion of a whole swathe of internal populations, from indigenous Australians to Irish Catholics. Many commentators have discussed the far-​reaching, and in some cases devastating, impact the notion of English ‘blood’ had in late nineteenth-​ century Australia and beyond by underwriting white racial supremacy as a mandate for imperial power and its attendant abuses. Douglas Cole’s statement that ‘haematic ideas were a significant force behind the desire for a White Australia’6 emphasises how the notion of blood was mobilised not simply as a metaphor but as a physiological justification for the geopolitical and cultural dominance of England over much of the globe. Blood is an organising motif for this chapter not only because it is ideologically potent and collocated with emotion (indeed, blood is a metonym for emotion, as the expressions hot-​and cold-​ blooded aver), but also because, as a number of essays in this volume aver, it has long been used as a metaphor for the connection between the present and the past. A majority of scholars have stressed the link between notions of racial kinship and the increasingly widespread influence of scientific and anthropological racial theories in the second half of the nineteenth century. There is no denying the impact of evolutionary thought, and the darker social theories it spawned, on how racial destiny came to be understood in colonial Australia and elsewhere. But the power of this scientific narrative should not lead us to neglect the profound and troubling debt popular racial theory in Australia owed to nineteenth-​century historicism in general, and to medievalism in particular. Blood is significant as both a motif and a substance where scientific and historical impulses converge. The medievalism underlying the use of this haematic conceit can certainly be seen in William Gay’s sonnet ‘To the People of the United States,’ written in 1896, which is significant for its tethering of shared Anglo-​American and Anglo-​Australian kinship within an historical arc that sweeps from the ‘dear source’ of a shared medieval past forward to a unified triumphal destiny. Men of our blood and speech! O let us be Brothers once more as in the former time When Chaucer shaped for us his sturdy rhyme Or Howard swept the Armada from the sea: Men of our blood and speech! If ye did flee For God and freedom to an alien clime, Forget not them who, resolute, sublime, Grappling with kings at home, made England free; And if in your red blood, and if in theirs, Yea, even in ours, who wax in Southern peace, There runs a redder strain that brooks no wrong,

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136  Louise D’Arcens But hot, unquenchable, the veins along, Burns for the right until its pulses cease, From one dear source we are alike its heirs. (Gay, 1911, 66–​7) Gay’s reference to Chaucer’s ‘sturdy rhyme’ supplements the pan-​Anglo sanguinary link by making a specifically medievalist appeal to a shared linguistic heritage founded on the ‘Chaucerian moment,’ when the English tongue became a vehicle of emergent ethnic-​political ambition. Nevertheless, it is the crimson thread, or in this case the ‘red strain,’ that bears the sonnet’s central ideological weight. This larger appeal to Anglo-​ Australia’s medieval haematic heritage found a personalised expression in the widespread practice of pedigree hunting. As I indicated in the introduction to this essay, for those engaged in this genealogical practice, haematic heritage was not simply cultural but nestled intimately in the living, breathing body; as Timothy and Guelke put it, for genealogists ‘ancestral pasts … live very much in the present’ as a psychosomatic reality.7 In his book Pounds and Pedigrees, historian Paul de Serville offers an account of how ambitious colonial Australians’ ‘craze for honours’ led to the hot pursuit either of individual knighthoods or of pedigrees proving a sanguinous link to ancient English families and ancestral lands. Indeed, the colonial pursuit of pedigrees, and the accompanying entitlement to bear a coat-​ of-​ arms, was persistent enough to compel Sir John Bernard Burke to offer a colonial extension to his genealogical guide Burke’s Peerage, so that in 1891 and 1895 there appeared the two volumes of the compendious Colonial Gentry, with its many Australian entries.8 According to de Serville, by the third quarter of the century colonists were going to extravagant lengths to trace their families back to illustrious antecedents. One such colonist was the Melbourne town clerk Edmund Gerald Fitzgibbon, whose (disputed) assumption of the medieval title of White Knight of Derry offered irresistible fodder for The Bulletin’s cartoonists, who repeatedly portrayed him as a pompous undersized figure, absurd in his full suit of armour (Figure 8.1). Another was William Arthur Callendar à Beckett, who virtually bankrupted his former-​convict father-​ in-​law with his indefatigable but ultimately unsuccessful quest for a range of desirable medieval ancestors, including a Saxon king, a brother of St Thomas Beckett and a series of medieval mayors and members of parliament.9 This genealogical fetish emerges repeatedly in colonial romance novels, which seem almost inevitably to end with a ‘surprise baronetcy in the mail’ trope, where the hero suddenly inherits a title dating back to the Middle Ages, which explains his naturally noble bearing. Alternatively, a heroine’s inherent self-​assurance and savoir faire is explained by way of genealogy. To take just two examples from the work of Rosa Praed, the ineffably superior Lady Waverying in Outlaw and Lawmaker (1893) is ‘the natural product of centuries of civilization,’ while Lady Bridget in

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Transhistorical mood in colonial Australia 137

Figure 8.1 Tom Durkin, cartoon of Edmund Gerald Fitzgibbon. The Bulletin, 23 February 1895.

the later novel Lady Bridget in the Never-​Never Land (1915) is described by her squattocratic suitor Colin McKeith as having ‘the blood of fighting ancestors in her veins.’10 In the words of Len Platt, Praed’s Australian novels are ‘awash with … discourses of breeding and blood in the contexts of race and nation.’11 As the date of the latter novel attests, the geneaological

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138  Louise D’Arcens trope continued to have currency into the first decades of the twentieth century, well after Australia had become a federal rather than colonial political entity. That this genealogical fetishism was a common practice is evident from the fact that it attracted extensive and amusing satiric treatments from contemporaries, who anticipated today’s scholarly skepticism toward genealogy as a practice. What these satires also reveal was that the search for noble blood was not unanimously endorsed within colonial Australia. While more recent critiques have focused on the problematic nature of reducing one’s identity to a ‘blood quantum,’ and of genealogy hunting’s refusal of ethnic and genetic diversity,12 the nineteenth-​century critics focused more on the social pretensions involved in the pursuit of royal or noble forbears. It receives an amusing satiric treatment, for instance, in Tasma’s 1892 novel Uncle Piper of Piper’s Hill. In this novel, the Cavendishes, blue-​blooded but impoverished, emigrate to Melbourne to live in the South Yarra pile of the enormously wealthy brother of Mrs Cavendish, the eponymous Uncle Piper, who has made his money as a butcher. The Cavendish family is poor because Mr Cavendish will not condescend to find occupation. Much fun is had at his expense, as we are invited to enjoy the spectacle of him being humbled by his dependence on one whom he regards as his inferior. Most laughable are his pitiable attempts to invoke his medieval genealogy as a way of holding himself aloof from the ‘humiliation’ of living in Melbourne. He actually sees himself as partly medieval, bodily linked to the premodern past through suffering from what he claims to be ‘hereditary headaches.’ These headaches purportedly afflict all male members of his line, and are, the narrator wryly reports, distinctly traceable … to the cleaving of the skull of an ancestral Cavendish, who had a posthumous son, by whom they were transmitted in an unbroken line to the present era. The period of skull-​cleaving was coincident with the period of battle-​axes, and was in every sense a more glorious and more comfortable age. (Tasma, 1892, 162) His absurd claim to ancestral headaches suggests that he nurtures and broadcasts his physical feebleness as a sign of the antiquity of his blood, a haematic atavism that marks his relationship to medieval nobility. In this gesture we see a satiric instantiation of Gaynor Bagnall’s notion that people not only claim but actually establish heritage through affective performance13; Mr Cavendish’s re-​enacting of the cleaved skull allows him to access his own perceived deep past. In order to reconcile himself to the debasement of relying on his brother-​in-​law’s unacceptably recent wealth, he decides that the ‘most graceful course’ available to him is to medievalise Uncle Piper by hunting down a pedigree that would ‘throw a veil over the unfortunate

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Transhistorical mood in colonial Australia 139 accident of his birth.’ Acting on a dim recollection of a Count Piper ‘somewhere or other some centuries ago,’ he sets out to ‘reconstruct’ Mr Piper’s family tree: He would spend whole hours in the Melbourne Library, pouring [sic] over books of heraldry. Every chronological or biographical document bearing upon the age in which Count Piper was supposed to have lived was made the subject of long and minute examination. (Tasma, 1892, 236) His fanatical attempt to redeem Uncle Piper also leads Mr Cavendish, like those colonials discussed by Paul de Serville, into voluminous correspondence with English genealogical societies and colleges of heraldry. When Mr Piper questions the value and purpose of this research, the narrator tells us Mr Cavendish continues, but contented himself by deploring the sad effects of low association on the undoubted descendant of a count, and pondering on the possibility of introducing a hog in armour instead of a stag at gaze into the coat-​of-​ arms that he foresaw would be a result of his researches. (Tasma, 1892, 237) The humour in this episode turns on its sly suggestion that pedigree hunting is predicated on desire and self-​interest rather than historical research. It is, of course, important to acknowledge the extent to which these personal invocations of Medieval English ancestry reflected colonial Australians’ subscription to the larger-​scale imperial ideal that Sir Charles Dilke in 1868 dubbed ‘Greater Britain’ –​a complex cultural-​political entity whose will to unity was an expression of the powerful and ancient genetic ties that bound it together.14 As Duncan Bell argues, although the political shape this entity should take was disputed, it was generally agreed that it was ‘a community bound by shared norms, values, and purpose,’ because it was, at base, a ‘racial polity,’ bound together by a shared English heritage.15 The notion of English ethnic continuity, so frequently invoked by later nineteenth-​century imperial thinkers as to be a commonplace, is epitomised by John Seeley’s 1883 formulation of ‘ethnological unity’ as the racial-​cultural sine qua non of Greater Britain’s political development. Its popular expressions show that this sense of English haematic continuity encompassed Norsophilic notions of Englishness as fusing Viking blood and Saxon hardiness. An article in the magazine The Lone Hand, to take just one example, attributed the English occupation of Australia not primarily to political or economic ambition, nor to penal expediency, but rather to ‘that roving instinct which bespeaks the unconquerable Norse element in the British blood.’16

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140  Louise D’Arcens But to draw the focus back to the idea of genealogy as ‘personal heritage,’ De Serville’s description of this genealogical fetish as nothing less than ‘a declaration of love for the home country,’17 with its direct appeal to emotional language, is a reminder that an analysis of its ideological engagement should not lead us to overlook the affective dimension of haematic medievalism, in which a deeply felt connection to history and to imperial ideals was infused with a complex range of keenly experienced feelings. What links the powerful emotional states underpinning haematic medievalism is that they are what can be called transhistorical feelings; that is, the ineffable emotional, physical and aesthetic feelings that are inseparably bound up with a perception or experience of, or desire for, contact with a still-​present past. These transhistorical feelings do not just motivate the pursuit of genealogy, but are in turn fed by this perceived experience of genealogical connection to the past. In this respect personal heritage hunting can be described, to use Monique Scheer’s phrase, as an ‘emotional practice’ in which emotions and cultural practices reinforce one another in a repeated circuit.18 What kind of language/​framework can be developed, then, to account for the simultaneous social, cognitive, physical and phenomenological nature of the trans-​temporal feelings, and thus to account for the power of medievalism as a vehicle for the emotional dissemination of imperial ideals? How might an account be developed that acknowledges the historicity of emotion but which also recognizes that the experiential, indeed phenomenal, dimension of emotion is not wholly reducible to historico-​cultural explanation? Blood is a particularly suggestive motif because while the texts discussed here formulate haematic ideas that are thoroughly of their time, the experiences they convey of ‘English blood,’ whether red or blue, are also elusively unhistorical, both in the sense that they are intimately somatic and, significantly, in that they are trans-​temporal, emerging out of a zone of contact where the ‘then’ and the ‘now’ are mutually inflected in a way that confounds an easy historical categorisation. This medievalist ‘haematic desire’ is also significant because it reveals that an emotionally based transhistorical phenomenon, medievalism, both poses a conundrum and offers a singular angle on the study of the history of emotion. I wish in the remainder of this essay to begin developing an account that will ground the study of emotion historically but accommodate the trans-​temporality of feeling. One way to think about the emotional sub-​stratum of medievalist practice is as a potent historically inflected instance of what philosopher Charles Taylor and his followers have formulated as engaged knowing or an ‘epistemology of engagement.’19 For Taylor, engaged knowing is fundamentally an epistemology of contact that critiques the Cartesian divide between knowing subject and known object, steering a helpful course between the empiricist investment in knowable objects and pure ‘postmodern’ relativism. So it does not deny that the independent life of things –​in this case medieval texts, objects, indeed the Middle Ages as epoch  –​exists beyond our representations and articulations, but it recognises these are phenomena

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Transhistorical mood in colonial Australia 141 that also exist as objects of interpretation. So they are medieval and medievalist at the same time. Although the idea of an epistemology of engagement can be applied fairly readily to such non-​scholarly forms of medievalism as colonial genealogy and the more recent practices of re-​enactment and heritage tourism, I wish to suggest that it potentially offers a paradigm that unifies medievalist practice across the amateur–​professional divide. In so doing, it addresses one of the key objectives of this volume, which is to trouble the distinction between ‘official’ and ‘unofficial’ heritage practices. Rather than perpetuating what can be characterised as the ‘phantom limb’ approach to medievalism in which overtly engaged epistemologies, for instance amateur medievalism, are perceived as a residual presence that haunts professional practitioners with a sense of our disciplinary amputation,20 I want to argue that this transhistorical engaged knowing is shared (even though it is not always equally recognised) by all who approach the Middle Ages; it is not just a mode of knowing, but, as I will go on to discuss, a mode of feeling in which all medievalism is involved. In many ways this might seem an intuitive (rather than analytical) response to medievalism as a transhistorical phenomenon. But that, in my view, is the strength of using a phenomenologically derived frame to describe a medievalist epistemology, even though Taylor does not explicitly discuss transhistorical modes of knowing. It brings into focus, and offers a language for discussing, the obvious yet unarticulated knowledges and experiences informing medievalist practices. Its chief strength is that in its refusal of empiricism, which Taylor places into the larger tradition of ‘intellectualism,’21 and in its argument that knowledge emerges out of the contact between the medieval remnant and the medievalist, it appeals as a ‘practical’ approach for describing the ‘thick’ or ‘multi-​modal’ form of transhistorical apprehension that we experience when we come into contact with articulations of the medieval (texts, artefacts, buildings and so on).22 This thick apprehension comprises not just intellectual responses, as well as social intuitions and beliefs, but also cognitive, somatic, and most significantly for this essay’s discussion, emotionally inflected knowledges. Of particular value is the phenomenological replacement of disinterested comprehension with interested apprehension, a term that aptly describes medievalist knowing because it implies receptivity and a grasp that it not fully conceptual while also, as a word, bearing an emotional frisson of trepidation –​of approach and retreat. This engaged epistemology is, furthermore, valuable not just in its admittance of emotional contact into the medievalist’s relationship with the medieval past, but, more specifically, because it makes room for the particularly diffuse, non-​object-​directed (or in parlance of phenomenology, non-​intentional) emotional registers of medievalism, which I will go on to argue are better thought of as medievalist moods. One other concept deserves attention before moving on to a discussion of medievalist mood. Taylor’s notion of apprehension or ‘pre-​understanding’

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142  Louise D’Arcens borrows heavily from Martin Heidegger’s notion of ‘preontological understanding,’ a pre-​ reflective intermediate state between the known and the unknown, alternatively described as a background against which more focused experiences and encounters with objects and situations take place and are understood.23 In the case of medievalism, the pre-​knowledge medievalists have is temporal and historical, forming a background apprehension of ‘the medieval’ or ‘medievalness.’ This is not an unchanging inner Platonic idea that distils an ‘essential medievalness’ within the soul or psyche of the medievalist  –​indeed, analyses of medievalism repeatedly underline how plastic notions of the medieval have proven in postmedieval contexts –​ nor is it simply a collection of proven historical medieval facts and artefacts. Rather, it is a dynamic aggregate forged by a postmedieval people’s repeated encounters with objects, texts, artefacts and interpretations of ‘the medieval.’ This background apprehension can vary both in tenor and texture according to one’s contact with the medieval; a twenty-​first-​century scholar’s medieval ‘background’ will not be identical to Mr Cavendish’s in Uncle Piper. Much like the word ‘vintage,’ the semantic and conceptual range of which spans from exactitude (a 1953 Dior Smoking jacket) to a more generalised notion of ‘retro,’ an apprehension of ‘medievalness’ can be more or less precise in its formulation, but it is always there, and it is always ‘thick’ with both finely intellectual but also broader beliefs and emotional engagements with ‘the medieval.’ Lest the word ‘pre-​knowledge’ be taken to imply a one-​way process in which the pre-​understanding is the prior foundation for focused articulations, Taylor scholar Michael Heyns argues that the process of meaning-​giving should be understood as a circuit.24 This is true, I would suggest, of engaged medievalist meaning-​making. In his essay on representations of St George in colonial contexts, Andrew Lynch has aptly used Samuel Beckett’s phrase ‘no things but thingless names’ to describe the ubiquitous repetition of medieval representations.25 In considering the idea of background ‘medievalness,’ it is possible to finesse this use of Beckett to argue that if ‘medievalness’ is a thingless name, it is a thingless name that is teeming with things but also, as an aggregate, exceeds the things comprising it. This discussion might seem to have strayed somewhat from the emotions of medievalism. It is, however, directly relevant because the background apprehension of medievalness, far from being remote or conceptual, has a deep and complex affective charge that both suffuses and exceeds postmedieval encounters with instantiations of the medieval and medievalism. Within Taylor’s and Heidegger’s accounts a pre-​ understanding informing an encounter is not just imbued with emotion, but with a particular order of feeling that is particularly apposite for thinking about the distinctively indeterminate emotions accompanying and emerging out of medievalist encounters, and that is mood. Using definitions developed by aesthetic theorists Carl Plantinga and Greg M.  Smith, emotion can be defined as an object-​directed cognitive-​physical sensation which is connected

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Transhistorical mood in colonial Australia 143 to a belief system.26 To return to the case of Mr Cavendish’s belief in his own medieval heritage in Uncle Piper of Piper’s Hill, this comprises pride in caste and Englishness in conflict with shame at the loss of caste resulting from life in the colonies; in the case of William Gay in ‘To the People of the United States,’ a subscription to the doctrine of Manifest Destiny generates, and is sustained by, hope for the flourishing of an ancient haematic lineage. Affect is the sub-​cognitive, frequently bodily, registering and amplification of these emotions; Mr Cavendish’s love of his ‘private heritage’ is registered via the psychosomatic atavism of his ancestral headaches, while Gay’s ‘burning blood’ physicalises the passion for justice he claims to be an ethnic trait. Mood, however, is a related but much more indefinite state, which is better defined, to use the English translation of Heidegger’s musicologically inflected term Stimmung, as a kind of engaged attunement.27 When Mr Cavendish describes ‘the period of battle-​axes’ as ‘a more glorious and more comfortable age,’ this is ideologically identifiable as conservative Victorian medievalism, but experientially, it is a transhistorical mood that exceeds its ideological object and cause, and manifests as an attunement to the period which he apprehends cognitively, emotionally and somatically. Another reason why mood is a particularly useful concept for thinking through transhistorical feelings is that mood enables an exploration of emotional states that, to use Heidegger’s term, perform ‘world-​ disclosure.’28 Such states of attunement open and make accessible dimensions of a world, rather than responding to specific objects, although objects within that world can elicit affect and affective responses within the larger frame of mood. Following from this, Heidegger’s idea of mood is a particularly useful way of thinking about those transhistorical emotional states that emerge when a postmedieval person apprehends pre-​reflectively the past ‘world’ opened up by a medieval object, or, to evoke Taylor’s term, the background ‘medievalness’ of it. A consideration of mood does not preclude an acknowledgement of more determinate ‘intellectual’ interactions such as, for instance, reading and analysing medieval texts, or dating artefacts, or deny the very specific joys andor frustrations these might elicit, or conjure away the ideological underpinnings of postmedieval attitudes toward the medieval. Rather, it claims that these are all always suffused with, and exceeded by, transhistorical mood. It is transhistorical mood, I suggest, that in all its imaginative and empathetic non-​specificity is a defining affective state that underpins, and is in turn fed by, the modern pursuit and experience of medievalist heritage. In this brief discussion I  will limit myself to exploring what is arguably the most conspicuous and famous of world-​disclosing transhistorical moods: nostalgia. As a cognitive-​affective state it is characterised by a transhistorical longing, in the first instance for a specific lost object or space, but then beyond that to what Taylor would call a ‘pre-​known,’ amorphous pastness. That mood is key to nostalgia is evident in what Linda Austin has described as its tolerance of inauthenticity, and its pleasure in copies and

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144  Louise D’Arcens ‘aesthetic semblances’ as long as these can facilitate apprehension of the longed-​for past time-​space.29 An example of this from colonial Australia can be found in the neo-​gothic Medieval Court which was built for inclusion in the 1866 Melbourne Intercolonial Exhibition (Figure 8.2). This space, built to scale and furnished by local artisans as a fully appointed Medieval chapel, was the surprise hit of an exhibition otherwise devoted to colonial trade. That this completely ersatz space responded to, and in turn generated, medievalist nostalgia is evident in the exhibition Guide’s praise, which focused less on the specific objects within it than on its ‘admirable tone,’ and its achievement of a ‘ “dim, religious light” befitting the character it assumes.’30 According to the Guide and to newspaper reports on the exhibition, the immersive medievalist mood evoked when walking through the Court was

Figure 8.2 Albert Charles Cooke, engraving, ‘The Mediaeval Court, Intercolonial exhibition’, The Australian News for Home Readers, 20 December 1866. Image courtesy of the State Library of Victoria.

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Transhistorical mood in colonial Australia 145 diffusely pious, disclosing an illustrious past that was captured in the clearly colonialist but also rather indistinct term ‘Old English.’31 This last term reveals that the Court, like the genealogies discussed earlier, enabled Anglo-​ Australian visitors to apprehend a world that is their lost patrimony yet also recoverable in facsimile in the present. Another colonial text narrating an immersive medievalist spatial encounter, Ada Cambridge’s 1897 detective novella ‘At Midnight,’ showcases the power of medievalist nostalgia to engage with the world disclosure inherent in medieval objects and places. This encounter takes place when the story’s Australian heroine Nettie Wingate first enters the medieval hall in ‘The Chase,’ the Norfolk seat of the Desailly family. Taking in its cavernous dimensions, massive staircase, rood-​screen, stone floors, mullioned windows, family portraits and heraldic insignia, she apprehends a world of feudal heritage, and concludes that the hall ‘indisputably testif[ied] that the Desaillys were an ancient and a noble family. Altogether, there was a fine, solemn, feudal air about the place, calculated to awe a colonial person seeing it for the first time.’32 Both Nettie and the visitors to the Mediaeval Court experience the architectural Middle Ages through a mood of nostalgic colonial ‘awe,’ in which an ineffable, impressionistic sensation that is both emotional and aesthetic is inseparably bound up first with a consciousness of the scale of history and the grandeur of the still-​present past. It is a kind of historicised cousin to the Kantian sublime, where the feeling of being overwhelmed by nature’s sheer physical scale is transposed into an experience of the grandeur and magnitude of history. It is, of course, undeniable that there is an ideological dimension to this awe that distinguishes it from the famous Kantian affect, for it is suffused with a recognition of the medieval space as a symbol of Englishness, and with an indistinct but unmistakable identification of oneself as cultural heir to this long imperial heritage. But for Nettie, as for the visitors at the mediaeval Court, the hall’s attraction is overwhelmingly atmospheric and evocative, inviting aesthetic pleasure at its ‘beautifully dilapidated’ Medieval banners and its ‘fine, solemn, feudal air,’ all of which express the continuation of an ‘ancient and noble’ family’s blood-​ line. In both cases these spaces are compelling because of the background medievalness they convey and the corresponding transhistorical mood they provoke. This idea of transhistorical mood or attunement (Stimmung) is not limited to medievalism; indeed, I would suggest it is at the heart of that aspect of heritage which affords an aesthetic and phenomenological experience of the past. It is a perfect exemplification of Laurajane Smith’s argument that heritage is not a thing,33 but rather a set of often unacknowledged values bound up in, and perpetuated by, feelings which are all the more powerful for being inchoate. But since ‘the medieval’ is the historical era that attracts the most richly capacious and associative forms of apprehension, cutting across history, myth and fantasy, it is perhaps the moodiest time of them all, and we should be alive to the moodiness of our many encounters with

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146  Louise D’Arcens it. By understanding the transhistorical moodiness suffusing the practices of heritage, we are able –​as this volume sets out to show –​to move beyond narrowly culturalist accounts of the uses to which the past is put, and apprehend instead the often indistinct depths of heritage’s affective power.

Notes 1 Dallen J.  Timothy and Jeanne Kay Guelke (eds), Geography and Genealogy: Locating Personal Pasts (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 1. 2 See Henry Parkes, The Federal Government of Australasia: Speeches Delivered on Various Occasions (November 1889–​ May 1890) (Sydney:  Turner and Henderson, 1890), 75. 3 Russell McGregor, ‘The Necessity of Britishness:  Ethno-​ Cultural Roots of Australian Nationalism’, Nations and Nationalism 12 (2006): 494. 4 Henry Parkes, ‘Australia and the Imperial Connection’, Nineteenth Century 15 (1884): 869. 5 David Lowenthal, Possessed by the Past: The Heritage Crusade and the Spoils of History (New York: Free Press, 1996), xi. 6 Douglas Cole, ‘ “The Crimson Thread of Kinship”:  Ethnic Ideas in Australia, 1870–​1914’, Historical Studies 14 (1971): 522. 7 Timothy and Guelke, Geography and Genealogy, 1 8 Paul de Serville, Pounds and Pedigrees:  The Upper Class in Victoria 1850–​80 (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1991), 206. 9 Ibid.,  195–​8. 10 Dale Spender, introduction to Outlaw and Lawmaker, by Rosa Praed (Sydney: Pandora Press, 1988), 251; Pam Gilbert, introduction (1915) to Lady Bridget in the Never-​Never Land (Sydney: Pandora Press, 1987), 18. 11 Len Platt, ‘ “Altogether better-​bred looking”: Race and Romance in the Australian Novels of Rosa Praed’, Journal of the Association for the Study of Australian Literature 8 (2008): 31–​44. 12 See, for instance, David C.  Mountain and Jeanne Kay Guelke, ‘Genetics, Genealogy, and Geography’, in Geography and Genealogy, 153–​74, and Iain J. Robertson, Heritage from Below: Heritage, Culture, and Identity (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2012), 1–​28. 13 Gaynor Bagnall, ‘Performance and Performativity at Heritage Sites’, Museum and Society 1:2 (2003): 87–​103. 14 Charles Dilke, Greater Britain:  A Record of Travel in the English-​Speaking Countries during 1866 and 1867, 2 vols (London: Macmillan, 1868). 15 Duncan Bell, The Idea of Greater Britain (Princeton, NJ, and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2007), 113, 10. 16 Anon. (Frank Renar), ‘Prolific Australia: The Continent of the British Race’, The Lone Hand 1 (1907): 68. 17 Pounds and Pedigrees, 192. 18 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 (2012): 193–​220, 194. 19 Charles Taylor, Philosophical Arguments (Harvard, MA:  Harvard University Press, 1995). See also Michael Heyns, ‘An Epistemology of Engagement’, Koers 71:1 (2006): 73–​99.

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Transhistorical mood in colonial Australia 147 20 See, for instance, Kathleen Biddick’s idea of medieval studies as traumatised and wounded by its separation from amateur medievalism in The Shock of Medievalism (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1998). 21 Charles Taylor, ‘Rorty and Philosophy’, Richard Rorty, ed. Charles Guignon and David R. Hiley (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 161. 22 Heyns, ‘An Epistemology of Engagement’, 75. 23 See Charles Taylor, ‘Engaged Agency and Background in Heidegger’, The Cambridge Companion to Heidegger, ed. Charles Guignon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 317–​36. 24 Heyns, ‘An Epistemology of Engagement’, 91–​3. 25 Andrew Lynch, ‘ “Thingless names”? The St George Legend in Australia’, The La Trobe Journal 81 (2008): 40–​52. 26 See Carl Plantinga, ‘Emotion and Affect’, The Routledge Companion to Philosophy and Film, ed. Paisley Livingston and Carl Plantinga (London and New  York:  Routledge, 2009), 86–​96; Greg M.  Smith, Film Structure and the Emotion System (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2003); and Greg M. Smith and Carl Plantinga, Passionate Views: Film, Cognition and Emotion (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999). 27 Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, trans J.  Macquarrie and E.  Robinson (Oxford: Blackwell, 1962), 134, 173–​4. See also Robert Sinnerbrink, ‘Stimmung: Exploring the Aesthetics of Mood’, Screen, Special Issue on Aesthetics, 53:2 (Summer 2012): 148–​63. 28 Heidegger, Being and Time, 120–​1. See also Hubert Dreyfus, Commentary on Being and Time (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999), 89. 29 Linda Austin, Nostalgia in Transition, 1780–​1917 (Charlottesville, VA: University of Virginia Press, 2007), 12. 30 J.G. Knight, ‘Preface’, Guide to the Intercolonial Exhibition of 1866 (Melbourne: Blundell and Ford, 1866), 11. 31 J.G. Knight, Guide to the Intercolonial Exhibition of 1866, 11. 32 Ada Cambridge, ‘At Midnight’, At Midnight and Other Stories (London: Ward, Lock, 1897), 75–​6. 33 Laurajane Smith, Uses of Heritage (London: Routledge 2006), 1.

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9  John Watt Beattie and the presentation of convict history Jon Addison Dedicated to the late Don Barker

The presentation and interpretation of Tasmania’s convict history has been heavily affected by and indeed mediated through a filter of emotional resonance. The affective power of this heritage on both the generation immediately following the cessation of transportation to the Australian colonies and on subsequent generations cannot be understated. A number of views of the convict period and system became prevalent following the dismantling of the system itself. One of the most pervasive was the idea of the ‘convict stain.’1 Tasmanians expressed shame in their convict heritage and strong desires to erase this past, essentially rewriting their own histories. At the same time, further emotionally laden perceptions developed, titillating readers and viewers of physical heritage with the brutality and horror of the period. Many people encouraged and promoted these ideas. The photographer, antiquarian, tourism promoter and early environmentalist John Watt Beattie was unusual in that he had influence both with intellectuals and society’s elite as well as the general population. How much of this influence affected later perceptions of Tasmania’s convict past? Beattie stands out as an influential figure in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in Tasmania, and he is well-​known for his vital interest in the convict period (Figure  9.1). As official government photographer from 1896, he was held in high regard and described as ‘the historian of Tasmania.’2 The purchase of his collection of artefacts, art and documentary material in 1927 by the Launceston City Council as a collection for the Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery has ensured that he is remembered as a collector. However, Beattie’s own thoughts and opinions on the material he promoted and collected, and in particular how he regarded material relating to Tasmania’s convict past, are ambiguous and sometimes contradictory. The historical record, evidence of Beattie’s own collecting activities and Beattie’s own written accounts do not present a coherent picture of his motivations and passions. Furthermore, the effect of Beattie’s collecting, writing, promotional and photographic activities on the attitudes and opinions of both Tasmanians and visitors to the island

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John Watt Beattie and convict history 149 are currently inadequately studied. What was the effect of Beattie’s writing, collecting and photography on perceptions of convict history, and how have the attitudes engendered by his work affected the study of Tasmania’s heritage? The word ‘heritage’ is itself problematic in the context of history, given the word itself has changed in both meaning and in use. Today, the term heritage is used to refer to the physical remnants of past societies –​ largely built heritage, but also encompassing other surviving forms of material culture. Prior to this, the term meant the property that could be handed on to one’s children. However, as Davison3 points out, this could also have an intellectual or spiritual legacy. The word referred more to ideals –​the ideas and values that would be passed down through generations. John Watt Beattie’s legacy represents an interesting and very early transition towards the modern concept of ‘heritage’ –​that of heritage being the physical remnants. As I will discuss further on, Beattie’s work contributed to multiple ideas of heritage. If referring to intellectual or spiritual legacy passed on to future generations, he was very much aware of the picture that he wished, in writing at least, to pass on to others. However, he also represents an interesting shift towards the very modern practice of both ‘saving’ and memorialising the physical remnants of the past, a newer interpretation of the term that has ultimately given rise to both the museum in its current form, and to the current ‘heritage industry.’ John Watt Beattie was born in Aberdeen, Scotland in 1859. His father, John Beattie Senior, was a house painter and later a portrait photographer, and John Watt Beattie learned from him how to process wet plates. The young Beattie was dispatched to Australia to find out about opportunities for farming in the colonies, but despite presenting his father with a somewhat pessimistic report of their prospects, 19-​year-​old John Watt Beattie with his parents and brother migrated anyway, settling on a farm in the Derwent Valley.4 As Beattie states: So the whole family of us came out, with this aged man leading, as it were. And we did buy our station in Tasmania. And the times were bad, as everyone had told me. And we did lose our money, as everyone predicted. All of it. (Cato, 1977, 81) From 1879 Beattie began making photographic expeditions into the bush and developed a great love for his new home, the outdoors and Tasmanian history, and a passion for photography. He became a full-​time professional photographer in 1882, first in partnership with the Hobart photographic studio of Anson Bros, and from 1891 independently, after buying out Anson Brothers.

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150  Jon Addison In the 1890s Beattie began to collect. He accumulated an extremely large collection of antiques, works of art, craft and the evidence of various parts of Tasmanian history, including the convict era. From this he assembled and opened his ‘Port Arthur Museum,’ and billed it as one of Hobart’s must-​see attractions. As well as acquiring objects, he collected and documented stories, gossip, documents and ephemera. His interest in, and sympathy with, both convicts and the Tasmanian Aborigines set him apart from many of his contemporaries, most of whom saw no value in or actively opposed collecting or promoting the less-​savoury aspects of Tasmania’s history. Despite these sympathies, he managed to successfully remain an influential and respected member of the intellectual establishment whilst at the same time collecting, displaying and promoting material that this same group sought to hide and forget as a legacy of the anti-​transportation campaign and its subsequent rewriting of Tasmanian history. As the colony’s official photographer, he worked hard to promote tourism to Tasmania. He ‘lantern lectured’ often, and sold sets of these lantern slides with printed commentaries. Beattie was very active in a large number of local organisations, including the Royal Society, the Minerva Club (a group of influential liberal intellectuals which included Andrew Inglis Clark), the Field Naturalists Club, the Scenery Preservation Board (1915) and the

Figure 9.1 View of the penitentiary and hospital, Port Arthur, Tasmania, c.1880. Postcard print. QVMAG Collection, QVM.1983.P.2685.

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John Watt Beattie and convict history 151 later Tasmanian Tourist Association. He was also a member of both the Methodist Church and the Theosophical Society. Beattie remained highly active as a photographer, lecturer and tourism promoter until his death in June 1930. He was survived by his wife Emily Cox Beattie, née Cato, and by their two daughters (Figure 9.2).

Figure 9.2 Studio portrait of John Watt Beattie and family, probably in Hobart, Tasmania, possibly in the 1910s or 1920s. From left:  Muriel, Emily (wife), Jean, John. QVMAG Collection, QVM.2005.P.0085.

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152  Jon Addison

Beattie and his collecting: the presentation of convict history The Beattie Collection, in Launceston’s Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery (QVMAG), represents one of Australia’s largest collections of convict-​related and other early colonial objects. The bulk of this material was purchased, with surprising foresight, from John Watt Beattie by the Launceston City Council as a collection for the QVMAG in 1927, for the sum of £4,5005  –​a figure that proved in hindsight to have been money very well spent. This was not the only antiquarian collection of this type of material,6 but it was certainly the largest and most complete at the time, and the best known. Beattie’s museum, which operated from the early 1890s to Beattie’s death in 1930, was housed in his small photographic studio in central Hobart (Figure 9.3).7 Beattie cashed in on the existing desire of tourists to see the macabre. However, although his museum did cater to this desire, it appears to have had two main functions. The first was as an outlet for Beattie’s interest in the convict past, and the second was as a money-​making exercise and tourist trap to support his commercial activities. The museum was both notable for the quality and quantity of its exhibits, but also for the apparent chaos with which it was displayed and catalogued. South Australian politician Edward Lucas, who visited in 1916, declared it to be ‘a rare and interesting collection, and in such abundance as fairly astonished me.’ Although he described the collection as being ‘badly displayed and imperfectly catalogued,’ he also wrote: ‘I unhesitatingly pronounce the exhibit mentioned the most interesting sight I saw in the island.’8 He was, however, mystified as to why the collection resided in the hands of a private collector rather than in a government collection. In certain rooms, the museum’s displays presented an impression of a chamber of horrors, prominently exhibiting a great variety of objects of repression, punishment and brutality. Cats-​o-​nine-​tails, manacles, leg irons, very heavy ‘punishment’ tools, portraits depicting the convict railway and the infamous dog line at Eaglehawk Neck, convict parti-​coloured uniforms, balls and chains and several other more macabre items such as the ‘Skull of the Macquarie Harbour Cannibal, Alex. Pearce (Marcus Clarke’s “Gabbet”).’9 Some items collected by Beattie appear to have added to or supported the misconceptions surrounding Port Arthur and the penal system in Van Diemen’s Land. It appears that Beattie was in effect creating, or at the very least perpetuating, a series of popular myths about Tasmania’s convict past. This museum was a private concern, and thus had more in common with the private museums or cabinets of curiosities of earlier ages than a state-​ endorsed nineteenth-​century museum with its aims of educational improvement for the masses.10 Beattie’s museum reflected his own quirky and omnivorous collecting interests rather than being a reflection of society’s intelligentsia. Although offering excellent public access by virtue of its

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John Watt Beattie and convict history 153

Figure 9.3 Convict relics from Port Arthur, Tasmania, on display in the Port Arthur Museum. Items include leg irons, ball and chain, whip, handcuffs, guns and a sword. QVMAG Collection, QVM.1985.P.1304.

central location and regular opening times, it was not the educational mixing place that the nineteenth-​century public museum was to become. Although billed as a museum, like many similar collections right up to the present day, Beattie’s collection had little in common with nineteenth-​century public institutions. While he did organise his objects, he did not do so in the taxonomic style of the museums of the day. Although today we tend to regard the convict-​related material as the most valuable and interesting parts of Beattie’s collection, it must be remembered

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154  Jon Addison that these artefacts only represent a percentage of the entire collection, which includes significant works of fine and decorative art such as paintings by William Buelow Gould, material relating to early governors and items of general historical interest from various places around the colony. In fact, despite the known attraction of the convict collections (made obvious by Beattie’s populist name for his museum, the ‘Port Arthur Museum’), the Launceston City Council was at pains to point out on purchasing the collection that it was the non-​convict-​related material that was the main aim of the purchase.11 In fact, the Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery’s curator, H.H. Scott, first displayed material relating to the ‘home life of early settlers’12 and made a point of not displaying convict material at all. The convict-​related objects in Beattie’s collection suggest a very particular narrative of the convict era in Tasmania. The story is one of visceral horror. The emotional response evoked by objects suggesting torture and brutality provided a direct link to the objects, without tempering the response with a more rounded approach. It is this focus on the ‘darker’ side of the human experience that both made the museum popular, but also served to paint a distorted picture of the experience of the majority of convicts. This narrative essentially ignores the entire assignment system, highlights examples of brutality and violence and focuses on places of secondary punishment –​primarily Port Arthur and Sarah Island. As early as the 1940s some complained,13 and modern historians continue to point out,14 that this populist vision does not properly represent the convict era. Of course, the fact that such brutality and violence did indeed take place is undisputed, but the focus on this type of punishment as representing the norm for all convicts presents a distorted picture of the era. Despite Beattie’s museum being a commercial interest, he was in fact concerned about the loss of the island’s history, and to a large extent his collection was a reaction to the fact that he saw this history vanishing at an alarming rate. Much of his collecting activity, and particularly that relating to the collection of paper-​based records, appears to have been rescue work. The sole remaining records of the Cascades Female House of Correction (or Female Factory)15 survive today only because Beattie rescued sections of them from destruction. In 1912, Beattie wrote to the Mercury expressing concern as to the adequate protection of ‘State Papers,’16 and although this letter related to contemporary records, it does show his concern for the retention of evidence of government activity by government agencies. He is also recorded in 1921 as having stated at a Royal Society lecture, regarding the destruction of convict records, that ‘their legislators had done a deal of wrong to the country in allowing those records to be pillaged and destroyed.’17 Despite this, however, it should be noted that Beattie’s own housing of the records he collected left much to be desired.18 Despite Beattie’s collecting and interpretation activities depicting such a particular picture of the convict era, he was by no means the only figure presenting this view. In fact, his impact was relatively minimal when

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John Watt Beattie and convict history 155 compared to that of Marcus Clarke, author of the serialised novel His Natural Life (1870–​1872), later For the Term of His Natural Life (first published as a novel in 1874).19 This work was adapted for the stage around 1908, and spawned a number of films, the best-​known being released in 1927. It is often the case that a work of fiction can transport a reader far more effectively into the past than can a less-​emotive, purely historical account, and For the Term of His Natural Life did just this.20 The book and the later film divided opinions throughout Tasmania. This popular work has, in its over-​dramatised depiction of the convict system and the nature of convict life, changed and shaped public opinion and, due to its nature as a printed book, it has spread this depiction to a far wider audience than that reached by Beattie’s museum display. B. Coultman Smith describes the book as ‘the work that has done probably more damage to the reputation of the convict days than any other…’21 Despite his own knowledge of the convict system of Van Diemen’s Land, including the knowledge that Clarke’s novel did not properly represent it, Beattie did not appear to harbour any particular dislike of the book or the film. In fact, he lent parts of his collection to be copied for the filming.22 Beattie himself displayed a measured attitude to the film, stating ‘I liked it. Historically of course, it was rotten … but as a picture it was good and quite above the ordinary run of stupid imported films which are inflicted upon us.’23 The popularity of Clarke’s book, and the subsequent film, probably had a greater impact on the popular view of the convict system than any other work, not least because of its longevity and wide readership. It impacted strongly on convict tourism in Tasmania, and was treated almost as if it were a primary source; excerpts from it were used by excursionists to the Port Arthur site to ‘set the scene.’24

Beattie’s writing In distinct contrast to his collecting activities, in most of his writing Beattie, both overtly and by omission, sought to support the erasure of the transportation system from the history of the colony. His 1905 lecture ‘Glimpses of the Lives and Times of the Early Tasmanian Governors’ and the booklet of the same title25 present the early history of a colony established specifically to be a penitentiary without walls while not once even mentioning convicts. His main written contribution to convict history was his lantern slide lecture No 6, The Convict Days of Port Arthur, which he published and sold. It focusses primarily on the architecture of Port Arthur rather than on the convict system itself, and reflects Beattie’s primary interest in Port Arthur, rather than convict history as a whole. The erasure of what became known as the ‘hated stain,’ or ‘convict stain,’ was the aim of much of Tasmanian European society during Beattie’s lifetime. It is to a large extent a legacy of the Anti-​Transportation movement. This movement, led by the Launceston Independent (Congregationalist) minister Reverend John West, campaigned relentlessly to end the

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156  Jon Addison transportation of convicts to Van Diemen’s Land. This was a movement grounded firmly in the new and aspirational middle class of Van Diemen’s Land, and their desire to live in a state that was not military-​controlled. The ‘Antis,’ as they became known, took their arguments directly to the British Government. They adopted a moral high-​ground, and focused on the idea that the existence of the dregs of Britain’s gaols, the ‘incorrigibles’26 (usually referring to repeat offenders), were morally corrupting the colony.27 One (much-​debated) effect of this campaign was the creation of feelings of shame within the colony, and a perception that because of the existence of convicts in Van Diemen’s Land, the rest of the world viewed Tasmania with contempt. A particularly strongly worded article in The Guardian; or true friend of Tasmania arguing against the Anti-​Transportationist campaign ranted: The whole world civilized and uncivilized … has pronounced upon us the unanimous verdict of ‘contempt.’ There is no disguising it, in every country still characterised by heroism, manliness and respectability, the fatal conclusion has been almost arrived at, that for the sake of humanity it would be better, that such a population of mere reptiles, ruffians, burglars and fiends of all sorts, such as we are represented to be, should perish –​should be swallowed up by the waters of the deep, or destroyed by the fire of Heaven, than continue to present to the world’s eye a spectacle so loathsome and pestilent.28 As a result, with the Cessation of Transportation in 1853, Tasmania embarked on a campaign of reinvention, which attempted to remove the convict past from the historical narrative. Most of Tasmanian society took part in this reinvention, from the creation of new fictional histories for convict ancestors, to the expurgation of much of convict history from historical narratives. As a member of the intellectual elite of Tasmania, Beattie naturally found himself influenced strongly by the revisionist agenda of this cadre of influential intellectuals. In his writing, although not in his collecting activities, Beattie’s approach is very much in accord with others in the intellectual elite of the colony at the time. His view of history was somewhat triumphalist and, through his tourism promotion activities, Beattie wanted to promote the island in a very particular way. From the 1870s, Tasmania promoted itself as the ‘Sanatorium of the South,’29 with the bulk of the emphasis being on the healthy nature of the environment and climate. Beattie’s photography and lecturing were at the forefront of this promotion. Beattie’s approach to convict history in writing was highly edited and frequently contradictory. He appears to have displayed a distinct reluctance in print to actively promote the study of the convict period, out of a seemingly genuine desire to promote the best interests (as he and the other members of the intellectual elite saw it) of the colony. On the other hand, he promoted

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John Watt Beattie and convict history 157 convict tourism. He writes in the Mercury in 1896, correcting a previous correspondence on their identification of buildings on Settlement Island, that his information ‘… might prove interesting to those who have visited this beautiful spot, although the scene of so much that is best left untold in the history of Tasmania.’30 In his booklet on Port Arthur, he edits out the names of convicts whose records he reproduces, ‘for obvious reasons.’31 These ‘obvious reasons’ relate to the perceived stigma of the convict era, and to avoid linking those whose prison records he publishes with living relatives, embarrassed by their convict roots. In fact, in his writings Beattie barely uses the term ‘convict’ at all, in most cases opting for the less emotively loaded word ‘prisoner.’ It is possible that the different views presented by Beattie’s museum and his writing reflect a different view of public and private spaces  –​despite being open to the public, the ‘Port Arthur Museum’ was in fact a private collection. Although Beattie may have seen his museum as a theatrical construct, and therefore as able to be sensationalised, this seems unlikely in the face of his genuine desire to rescue at-​risk historical material, a desire that betrays a far more serious purpose for his collecting activities. Beattie possibly regarded his written work, particularly within the structure of the Royal Society, as being more overtly public, and therefore requiring a greater element of presentation of the past as something from which others could take inspiration, and presenting a narrative of progress. It is probable that he presented different material to two different audiences. His museum, despite its educational purpose –​to show the public a part of Tasmanian History that was by Beattie’s time rarely seen or referred to –​was nevertheless a place for individual pleasure and consumption. One could compare it to MONA32 in Hobart today, as a very popular and influential but privately owned and conceived museum. His work with the Royal Society, on the other hand, represents monumental history presented almost as an act of public citizenship. Beattie did in fact exhibit scholarly sense and appears to have been genuinely attempting to create accurate histories.33 He collected and referred to original documents, and he recorded the oral testimonies he heard at a time well before the field of oral history had even been conceived. It is interesting to note how much convict history had already passed into legend, and become the stuff of ‘fallacious’ commentaries barely 30 years after the last institutionalised convicts had finally left Port Arthur. This is testament to the success of the attempt to rewrite, sanitise and edit the island’s history following the Anti-​Transportation campaign of the 1840s and 1850s. Beattie was a prominent member of the Royal Society and was one of the founders of the History and Geography section. Petrow writes: ‘this section pioneered the study of Tasmanian history well before it made an appearance at the University of Tasmania, where Australian history was taught as a small part of British history and Tasmanian history was ignored until well after the Second World War.’34 The aim of these men was to promote a version of

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158  Jon Addison history that we would today regard as ‘triumphalist.’ Why then did Beattie acquire and keep his convict collections? Part of the answer may lie in Beattie’s early life. He grew up surrounded by the evidence of the convict system, and he appears to have retained much sympathy with the ‘old hands.’ Cato records Beattie as having said:  ‘my soul got soaked in the lore of Port Arthur.’35 As a young man he appears to have spoken to and sought out those with stories of the convict period. His experiences seem to have given him a more egalitarian view of the period through his personal connection with people who actually identified as ex-​convicts (as opposed to the majority of the population, who actively buried their convict backgrounds). It is possible that this association actually skewed his perceptions of the convict era. For the most part only those who had seen secondary punishment and were known by others to have endured this would be likely to reveal themselves as ex-​convicts –​those with less-​obvious criminal records may not necessarily have spoken so openly to Beattie, and the fact that Beattie would largely have heard stories of the time from those who had endured its hardships may have given him a less-​than-​ complete picture of the convict system. His personal and egalitarian approach to history continued in his later life  –​his workbook36 (1895–​1902) shows a man who was keenly interested in the stories he could collect and the people he could meet, and he appears to have had much genuine respect for his interviewees. It contains a large proportion of memoirs and notes on the convict period, and possibly better reflects his actual research interests than much of his published material.

Beattie’s photography John Watt Beattie is probably best known today as a photographer, and this pursuit was his primary source of income. Although he charged admission to his museum,37 this was not the main source of income generated by this enterprise. One of the main purposes of his museum was to provide a point of contact and generate interest for the sale of his photographs. The photographs Beattie sold were not all his own work. Concepts of copyright had been around for many years when Beattie was practising, but there was little or no enforcement of intellectual property rights. As was standard practice at the time, Beattie copied and re-​copied material retained in his studio. Photographs by H.H. Baily, Anson Brothers, T.J. Nevin and others were all sold as Beattie’s own work. This can make it extremely difficult to date some photography of this period, particularly a series of well-​known convict portraits. Beattie copied these photographs of prisoners, appended the words ‘Port Arthur’ and ascribed a generic date (1874), effectively obscuring any incontrovertible knowledge of their authorship. The photographs, along with his own pictures of Port Arthur and Sarah Island, represented the bulk of his photographic promotion of convict history. However, criticisms that

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John Watt Beattie and convict history 159 Beattie merely used his museum as a front for the sale of photographs ignore his genuine love of history and his compulsion to collect. The subjects of Beattie’s photography were varied. He photographed for pleasure, and for friends, but mostly for commercial purposes. His studio was a commercial operation, and his bread-​ and-​ butter was portraiture. Numerous portraits and similar commissions by Beattie exist, but these were obviously not his first love. His passions were exploring and photographing the outdoors, and Tasmania’s history, particularly the ‘lore of Port Arthur.’38 His outdoor photography interests focused in particular on the difficult-​to-​ reach wilderness areas that were familiar during most of Beattie’s life only to trappers, bushmen, prospectors, timber cutters and railway workers. His photography popularised these regions to an audience largely unfamiliar with them. His historical interests were largely covered by his collecting activities, but Port Arthur and Sarah Island did feature in his photographic catalogue. Commissions also meant that he photographed industry, and in particular, mining. Beattie’s photography painted a very particular picture of the island of Tasmania. In style, he was unquestionably a romantic, and much of his photography is in the sublime style,39 usually representing humans as dwarfed and overwhelmed by the awesome power of nature. Although Beattie’s work was in step with the tenor of the times, unlike the overwhelming majority of professional photographers in Tasmania,40 Beattie treated the camera as a mobile tool to document hard-​to-​reach places. Probably the primary reason he did this was because he held a genuine passion for his adopted homeland. Unlike most commercial photographers, such as H.H. Baily, Anson Brothers or Stephen Spurling II, Beattie, despite the cumbersome and delicate nature of photographic equipment at the time, did not restrict his photography to locations within easy reach of major urban centres. He photographed extensively in the bush, including trips to Lake St Clair (Figure 9.4), the remote west coast, Port Arthur, Mount Lyell and many other locations. To an extent, this was a product of developing technology. The invention of the dry plate made it far easier to take photography to the field. However, even with this new technology it was Beattie’s adventurous nature that gave him the impetus to photograph further afield.41 Beattie’s true genius was to take this passion for the outdoors and to transform it into a genuine commercial opportunity. Beattie worked hard to shape the ideas, opinions and interests of the public rather than reflecting existing public wants and desires. If a market was not immediately apparent, he created one, and he was remarkably successful in doing so. In this regard John Watt Beattie was an unconventional photographer, and he carried this unconventionality across to other areas, including his collecting practices. To an extent his collecting practices mirror those of other nineteenth-​ century collectors. However, the range of Beattie’s collecting activities show a remarkable even-​handedness. In his museum, the artefacts of early governors

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Figure 9.4 View of J.W. Beattie’s campsite on his first trip to Lake St Clair, Tasmania, 1879. QVMAG Collection, QVM.1993.P.2302.

rub shoulders with those of famous (and less-​famous) bushrangers, convicts (both men and women), whalers and many others of various classes. This mixing of material, as well as simply being a product of inadequate space, was probably intended to evoke in the visitor feelings of solidarity and connection with fellow human beings, except when the artefacts related to incarceration and violence, in which case revulsion was the more normal emotional response. In addition, although containing all of the expected evidence of brutal oppression (such as handcuffs, manacles, parti-​coloured clothing, balls and chains and prison doors), Beattie’s convict-​related collection also contains large quantities of convict-​made crafts and other curios, largely from Port Arthur. Artefacts used during the earlier Assignment period of transportation, where convicts were ‘assigned’ to work for civilian masters rather than being under direct state control, were very often exactly the same as those used by the free population. The modern practice of collecting to represent the experiences of average people had not developed to the extent it has today, and as a result there is little in any surviving collection material representing this aspect of convict experience. Beattie in most of his work makes no reference to the Assignment system, so it is unsurprising that

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John Watt Beattie and convict history 161 his collections too do not really represent it. To his credit, however, Beattie’s collections relating to the ‘home life of early settlers’ did attempt to fill this gap in the historical record, but, like most collectors of his time, the early settlers represented tend to be ‘great men’ –​the wealthy and the influential. The same problems are still encountered by museum curators today; items best representing the everyday and the experience of average human beings are remarkably scarce and often lacking good provenance, given their ubiquity when used. A key aspect of Beattie’s character was his business as a tourism operator and promoter. Despite moving in intellectual circles, he was a businessman. His photographic studio and his museum were more than simply hobbies, but key parts of his life. As with most tourism operators, Beattie simply could not ignore the desires of the public to see the darker side of the colony’s history. Although the majority of the establishment did not wish to see Port Arthur becoming popular as a result of its dark history, this is what the vast majority of visitors went there to experience, and Beattie could be seen to be merely cashing in on this. This said, his interest appears to be far greater than this, despite his desire to promote Tasmania for more than simply its convict history.

Conclusions A coherent picture of Beattie’s thoughts and motivations is still hard to determine. On the one hand he appears to have supported the establishment view that associations with Tasmania’s penal past be ‘scrapped forever.’42 On the other hand he maintained a personal (and, to a large extent, a commercial) interest in collecting this part of the island’s past. Beattie certainly had a love for, and a strong concept of, what he saw as the history and heritage of Tasmania, and indeed a remarkable historical sense, but without a strong grounding in formal history this concept appears to the modern reader and viewer as somewhat fragmented. Beattie’s practice as a writer of history contrasts with his work as a photographer, businessman, tourism promoter and successful self-​publicist. It was this side of his character and activities that led him to display his significant collection of convict material to the paying public. It is interesting to note, though, that he is not recorded as having lectured on the topic of convictism as he did on other areas of history and tourism. He appears to have been interested in ‘celebrating but not challenging the status quo.’43 This said, Hobart’s radical weekly paper, The Clipper, wrote about Beattie’s lecture in March 1904 for the celebrations of the foundation of Tasmania: Beattie has lots of historically interesting material, and uses it to advantage. Rather pleasing to notice that he did not shirk the black spots in our history, but was fair all round, although his denunciations of the

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162  Jon Addison treatment of the ‘free’ press in Governor Arthur’s time, the tyranny of certain jailers, the woes of the poor devils who in the jail yard ‘went up at eight and came down at nine,’ and the inhuman annihilation of the aborigines, were evidently unpalatable to some lingering remnants of the old regime, who gnashed their gums in the semi darkness of the Town Hall. (The Clipper, 1904, March 5, 2) Different pictures of Beattie emerge depending on what form of evidence one examines. A curatorial approach, using his remaining collections as primary documents, presents a picture of a man vitally interested in a vast range of topics, but with an extremely strong interest in Tasmania’s penal past. However, examining available written evidence shows a man equally exuberant in his interests, but displaying attitudes far more closely aligned to the views of the liberal intellectual elite of the colony, who wished to see the island state reinvented without the stigma of its troubled past. His photography shows a similar tendency to promote multiple and often contradictory viewpoints. None of Beattie’s writings betray any concern or even acknowledgement of the inherent conflict between his many activities and interests. Davison characterises forms of Australian history, according to a taxonomy proposed by Nietszche, as being monumental, antiquarian or critical,44 and points out that real history incorporates elements of each. Beattie’s collecting activities place him firmly in the antiquarian camp, closely aligning him with the gradual decline in the influence of monumental history in favour of antiquarian history that characterised the interwar years. Conversely, his writing represents a mix of monumental and antiquarian history, with his approach remaining that of an antiquarian, but with his aims being somewhat more monumental. Beattie’s publication Port Arthur, Van Diemen’s Land highlights the contradictions inherent in his historical interests and practices.45 It is one of the few pieces of published work by Beattie dealing with convicts, and his introductory essay is remarkably well-​balanced, but the book as a whole represents a collection of transcribed period documents, mostly unreferenced. Despite his own reasonably balanced view, Beattie makes no attempt to resolve the contradictions inherent in the less-​ balanced offerings following. He merely points out that as original documents, the transcriptions are ‘ABSOLUTELY CORRECT.’46 The publication resembles selected elements of an antiquarian collection in printed form, with the focus being on the collection and dissemination of detail, rather than presentation of a coherent historical narrative. This acceptance and desire to collect any and all information without overt judgement characterises Beattie’s collecting practices, both of objects and of documents and stories. He was a more rigorous collector and cataloguer than researcher. However, the very nature of his collecting and

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John Watt Beattie and convict history 163 cataloguing activities gave him an advantage of knowledge when discussing the topics he collected. While frequently denouncing inaccurate depictions of the convict past, he published relatively little on the topic to set the record straight, and unknowingly contributed to some pervasive misconceptions as to the nature of this period. The Port Arthur Museum had a pronounced impact on visitors, and provoked many comments in the museum visitors’ books.47 Examples include: ‘A very interesting collection. Highly educational’ (G.J. Ogilvie, 20 November 1914) and ‘Very interesting but very sad, thank goodness these are better days’ (James G. Williams, 3 December 1914). In addition, from 1916 on, an increasing number of visitors commented that ‘This collection should be in the control of the State’ (R. Wilson Macaulay, 14 March 1916). Most entries simply commented on how interesting the collection was, what good value the museum was to visit or how overpriced their visit was. However, others fall into a number of categories. One of the most numerous types of entry expresses the sentiment that ‘man’s inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn.’ There are those who expressed relief that the Empire was now (1914–​1917) more civilised than it was in the colonial period, and an interesting subset that compared the convict era to the horrors of World War I, as the book is contemporary with the outbreak of the war.48 Particularly interesting is the small number of comments stating that the evidence of convict history is best forgotten.49 Beattie’s photographs of Port Arthur naturally focused on the areas that tourists wished to visit: the ruined church, which fit perfectly into the picturesque Gothic mould, and the Model Prison, with its architecture specifically designed for the ‘reform’ of prisoners. However, he did not limit his attention simply to these areas. Although Beattie was an innovator, he nevertheless still reflected the attitudes and interests of his time. Despite his decidedly non-​modern collecting practices, Beattie’s passion to save and preserve key parts of history shows remarkable foresight. By saving and collecting much of the documentation of the period, Beattie succeeded in doing what Henry Hutchinson Montgomery, one of the founders of the Historical Section of the Royal Society, aspired to:  ‘to conserve facts which will be of immense interest’ in two centuries even if they may seem ‘trivial’ now.50 Beattie’s impact on the perpetuation or otherwise of ideas of the ‘convict stain’ or the fetishisation and creation of myths about convict history is harder to judge. It is safe to say, however, that without an easily discernible aim or agenda, Beattie did not himself encourage either outcome in any systematic way. Although the end results of Beattie’s work –​his extensive collections, his body of photographic work and, to a lesser extent, his published material  –​reflect varied (and often contradictory) societal attitudes, they only shaped or influenced attitudes and knowledge of society to a very limited extent. John Watt Beattie himself did have considerable

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164  Jon Addison influence and impact, but this impact was largely limited to reflecting in various ways a number of contradictory viewpoints already in common currency. Beattie’s urge to collect, virtually without restraint, and to rescue and keep documentary and physical objects has left future generations with a remarkably varied picture of Tasmania’s past. The impact of his museum, but, more importantly, of the collections that this museum bequeathed to others through the two collections now in public ownership, has materially affected attitudes towards Tasmania’s heritage. This includes both ‘heritage’ in the sense of the intellectual and emotional legacy left to future generations, but also particularly in the survival of physical heritage. His collections do not present a complete picture, but the distinct lack of shaping and curation by Beattie, and his failure to construct historically consistent narratives, have left us with an amazing body of evidence which we can now use to construct our own pictures of one of the most emotionally laden periods of Tasmania’s history. Beattie’s legacy as a writer and researcher is vested in the idea that the heritage passed on to one’s children should present a largely positive picture, and is in line with the prevailing ideas of triumphalist and monumental history. However, it is as a collector and photographer that Beattie has most affected modern concepts of Tasmania’s heritage. By encouraging pride in Tasmania’s natural environment, and by collecting and documenting the physical remnants of the past, his activities have materially affected both the survival of physical heritage and the way that Tasmania is viewed by both Tasmanians and the world.

Notes 1 The term ‘convict stain’ or ‘hated stain’ appeared in the press and popular writing as early as the 1840s, during the height of the convict period itself. For example, the term is used by the Hobart Courier on 13 October 1840, regarding the choice ‘between a convict colony and one free from the convict stain.’ 2 ‘Mr. J. W. Beattie’, The Mercury, 4 March 1904, 5. 3 Graeme Davison, ‘The Meanings of “Heritage” ’, A Heritage Handbook, ed. Graeme Davison and Chris McConville (St Leonards, NSW:  Allen and Unwin, 1991),  1–​13. 4 Jack Cato, The Story of the Camera in Australia (Melbourne:  Institute of Australian Photography, 1977), 81. 5 Don Barker, ‘John Watt Beattie and the Beattie Collections’ (Master’s thesis, University of Tasmania, 2012). 6 Two other collections of note existed. One was a shop run by the collector Mr W.  Williamson. The other major collection was owned by a Mr W.  Radcliffe, who operated a museum in conjunction with his store at Port Arthur. Barker, ‘John Watt Beattie’, 22; David Young, Making Crime Pay:  The Evolution of Convict Tourism in Tasmania (Hobart:  Tasmanian Historical Research Association, 1996).

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John Watt Beattie and convict history 165 7 Beattie’s Museum first operated in premises on Murray Street, and from 1921 on Elizabeth Street. 8 ‘THE PORT ARTHUR MUSEUM’, The Mercury, 3 February 1916, 7. 9 John Watt Beattie, Port Arthur Museum Catalogue of Exhibits (Hobart:  J.W. Beattie Photographic Studio, Critic Print, n.d.). 10 Tony Bennett, The Birth of the Museum (New York: Routledge, 1998). 11 Barker, ‘John Watt Beattie and the Beattie Collections’. 12 ‘THE EARLY SETTLERS’, Launceston Examiner, 12 May 1928, 11. 13 B. Coultman Smith, Shadow Over Tasmania: For the First Time, the Truth about the State’s Convict History, 4th edn. (Hobart: s.n., 1946). This book was an early attempt to change society’s views of convictism by focusing on the more ‘positive’ aspects of the system, emphasising reform and the legitimacy and justice of the authorities. 14 Alison Alexander, Tasmania’s Convicts: How Felons Built a Free Society (Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2010), 36. 15 QVM.1958.79.68  –​ Records of the Cascades Female House of Correction, Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery 1833–​1877. Tasmanian Archive and Heritage Office (TAHO) record series AF591 Female Factory (Cascades). http://​ search.archives.tas.gov.au/​default.aspx?detail=1&type=S&id=AF591 (accessed 14 August 2017). 16 ‘STATE RECORDS’, The Mercury, 28 October 1912, 8. 17 ‘THE ROYAL SOCIETY’, The Mercury, 11 October 1921, 6. 18 W. Johnson, ‘A SUGGESTION’, The Mercury, 24 October 1922. This letter is concerned with the lack of protection (cases, etc.) offered to the material on display in Beattie’s museum, and, although it commends Beattie for saving the material, the writer suggests that the collection should be purchased by the government or by public subscription. 19 Initially titled His Natural Life. Marcus Clarke, For the Term of His Natural Life (Sydney: HarperCollins, A&R Classics edition, 2002). 20 More recently novels such as Kate Grenville’s The Secret River (2006) and Rohan Wilson’s The Roving Party (2011) are good examples of the same phenomenon. 21 Coultman Smith, Shadow over Tasmania, 11. 22 Barker, ‘John Watt Beattie and the Beattie Collections’, 18. 23 Tasmanian Mail, 21 September 1927, 6, referenced in Barker, ‘John Watt Beattie and the Beattie Collections’, 21. 24 Young, Making Crime Pay, 48. 25 John Watt Beattie, Glimpses of the Lives and Times of the Early Tasmanian Governors (Hobart: Davies Brothers, 1908). 26 ‘PUBLIC MEETING’, Launceston Examiner, 27 October 1847, edition: MORNING, 3. 27 Many examples exist of this. At the 1847 public meeting that launched the league, discussions included the ‘fearful evidence of the existence of unnatural crime’ (homosexuality), Launceston Examiner, 12 May 1847, 4, in the context of the report of the 1837 Select Committee on Transportation. Other articles written to the Examiner refer to the ‘corrupting’ influence of convicts. An 1847 letter refers to Van Diemen’s Land as having been made the ‘cess pool of the British Empire’; Launceston Examiner, 28 April 1847, 5. 28 ‘Electors do your duty!! À bas the Terrorists!!!’ The Guardian; or True Friend of Tasmania, Hobart, 4 October 1851, 2.

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166  Jon Addison 29 Nic Haygarth, The Wild Ride:  Revolutions that Shaped Tasmanian Black and White Wilderness Photography (Launceston:  National Trust of Australia (Tasmania), 2008), 24. See also Stefan Petrow and Tasmanian Historical Research Association, Sanatorium of the South?: Public Health and Politics in Hobart and Launceston 1875–​1914 (Hobart:  Tasmanian Historical Research Association, 1995). 30 Beattie, ‘The Old Court-​House’, 4. 31 John Watt Beattie, Port Arthur, Van Diemen’s Land (Hobart: Port Arthur Museum, 1900), 3. 32 MONA (Museum of Old and New Art) in Hobart is a private museum established by millionaire professional gambler, art collector and businessman David Walsh. It is the largest private museum in Australia and uses highly theatrical display techniques to exhibit an eclectic mixture of contemporary art and ancient artefacts. 33 Michael Roe, ‘Beattie, John Watt (1859–​ 1930)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography (Canberra: National Centre of Biography, 1979). http://​adb.anu.edu. au/​biography/​beattie-​john-​watt-​5171/​text8687 (accessed 14 August 2017). 34 Stefan Petrow, ‘The Antiquarian Mind:  Tasmanian History and the Royal Society of Tasmania 1899–​1927’, Papers and Proceedings of the Royal Society of Tasmania 137 (2003): 67. 35 Cato, The Story of the Camera in Australia, 81. 36 John Watt Beattie, Workbook of J.W. Beattie, 1895–​1902, private collection,  1902. 37 QVM:2013:MS:0003, Visitor’s book, Port Arthur Museum, 1914–​1921, Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery, Beattie Collection. ‘Well worth a shilling’ (N.J. May, 15 May 1917). 38 ‘DEATH OF MR. J. W. BEATTIE’, The Mercury, 25 June 1930, 7. 39 The sublime, as part of the romantic movement, is the expression of experiences of awe, terror and danger in nature. It generally expresses the idea of beauty and power in nature of being beyond or above human experience. 40 Most professional photographers, although in many cases using a similar style to Beattie, did not venture as far afield as Beattie, which set his photography apart from his contemporaries. Stephen Spurling III (1876–​1962) was equally as adventurous in his photography, but, being considerably younger, began this work somewhat later. He stands with Beattie as the only serious professional Tasmanian photographer undertaking expeditions so far into the bush and away from major centres before the mid-​twentieth century. 41 Both Beattie and Stephen Spurling claimed to have been the first to introduce dry plate photography to Tasmania. Although Morton Allport had used a form of dry plate process as early as 1863, Beattie and Spurling were probably the first to introduce the process commercially. 42 Quote by the Bishop of Tasmania in Petrow, ‘The Antiquarian Mind’, 73. 43 Petrow, ‘The Antiquarian Mind’, 73. 44 Graeme Davison, The Use and Abuse of Australian History (Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2000), 11. 45 Beattie, Port Arthur, Van Diemen’s Land, 9. 46 Ibid. 47 QVM:2013:MS:0003 ‘Visitor’s book, Port Arthur Museum’, 1914–​1921, Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery, Beattie Collection.

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John Watt Beattie and convict history 167 48 ‘Ought to have Kaiser Bill in some of those leg irons and hand cuffs’ (Chas. H. Priddeth, 31 December 1913). ‘The officials must have been German. Worse than Germans’ (Arnold F. Webster, 4 January 1915). 49 QVM:2013:MS:0003 ‘Visitor’s book, Port Arthur Museum’, 1914–​1921, Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery, Beattie Collection. Examples include: ‘A blot on civilisation and should be destroyed’ (M.M. Scott, 17 March 1916) and ‘A standing disgrace to our name. The sooner obliterated the better’ (Mr & Mrs F.P. Morris, 16 February 1917). 50 Petrow, ‘The Antiquarian Mind’, 68.

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10  ‘The general softening of manners among us’ Music and the moral power of nostalgia in a colonial penal colony Alan Maddox By the middle of the eighteenth century, Britain’s population had risen dramatically, poverty and unemployment were commonplace and crime had become a major problem. In the absence of effective policing, increasingly severe penalties were prescribed in an attempt at deterrence, so that by 1815 about 225 crimes, including relatively minor offences such as stealing, were punishable by execution.1 In practice, death sentences were often commuted to lengthy terms of imprisonment, with the result that gaols were not adequate to house the burgeoning number of convicted criminals. Britain had transported convicted criminals to work out their sentences in indentured servitude in its colonies in North America since the early seventeenth century, and in the eighteenth century the practice was substantially expanded; however, the outbreak of the American Revolutionary War in 1775 forced the British Government to look for another option. Australia had been claimed for Britain in 1770, and the decision was made to establish a penal colony there. Between 1788 and 1868, when transportation ended, more than 150,000 convicts were transported to New South Wales.2 While those who served out their sentences or obtained a ‘ticket of leave’ could eventually be released from penal servitude, convicts who committed a second offence after transportation were banished to the most remote prison settlements, from which escape was virtually impossible –​the penal colonies of Port Arthur and Macquarie Harbour in Van Diemen’s Land (now Tasmania), and Norfolk Island, off the east coast of Australia, 1100 kilometres from Sydney. According to Sir George Arthur, Governor of Van Diemen’s Land when prisoners are sent to Norfolk Island … they should on no account be permitted to return. Transportation thither should be considered as the ultimate limit, and a punishment short only of death; and if the requisite discipline there were generally known to the Prisoner population here to be lasting, firm and invariable, it would in truth be more dreaded than even an ignominious death.3

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Music in a colonial penal colony 169 With its dark image of suffering and exile, Norfolk Island, along with Port Arthur, has become a key site of Australian colonial heritage, and increasingly of ‘thanatourism,’ occupying a place in the Australian imagination emblematic of the cruellest excesses of the convict experience and capable of eliciting strong emotional responses in visitors.4 The intersection of heritage and emotion in Australian historic sites of the convict era, such as Port Arthur and Norfolk Island, is often conceived primarily in terms of the modern emotional reception of the material heritage which can still be seen there. Surviving buildings, artefacts used in daily life and other archaeological finds give some sense of the claustrophobic and violent world in which prisoners moved, and many visitors find an encounter with such tangible evidence of suffering very moving.5 But in the case of the former prison site on Norfolk Island, the emotional reception of heritage also has a historical dimension which is crucial to understanding a key episode in its convict past –​and one which concerns cultural rather than material heritage: the use of music and literature to manage the emotional regime of the prison as an integral part of prison reform in the mid-​ nineteenth century.

Alexander Maconochie and prison reform on Norfolk Island And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel, awhile! And I will come again, my luve, Tho’ it were ten thousand mile. (A Red, Red Rose, Robert Burns, 1824)6 Captain Alexander Maconochie was appointed superintendent of the penal settlement on Norfolk Island in 1840, with a limited mandate to introduce a new system of prison discipline. Maconochie was a career sailor who had joined the Royal Navy at the age of 15 and rose to the level of commander. After he left the navy in 1815, he devoted his time to writing about issues of public interest, including penal reform and trade between the countries bordering the Pacific Ocean. In 1836 these interests coalesced when he was appointed private secretary to the governor of the colony of Van Diemen’s Land, and, separately, he was asked by the English Society for the Improvement of Prison Discipline to report on the convict system in the colony.7 His report was damning, finding that, far from reforming the convicts, the system tended only to corrupt them further, since ‘being in no degree morally improved by it, the instant they pass from under its pressure, they yield with equal facility to the impulses to evil amidst which they next find themselves.’8 The resulting outcry in Van Diemen’s Land led to his dismissal from his position; however, the report was received positively

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170  Alan Maddox by the House of Commons’ Molesworth Committee on Transportation, and shortly afterwards he had the opportunity to make good on his proposals for reform in one of the most difficult of all colonial penal environments, when appointed superintendent on Norfolk Island.9 The regime he inherited was unrelievedly grim, and explicitly designed to instil terror as a deterrent to crime in the mainland colonies. Floggings were administered for offences such as insolence to a soldier, being found with tobacco, or smiling. So appalling were the conditions that when, following a prisoner mutiny in 1834, the Catholic clergyman Dr. William Ullathorne had the task of telling the convicted men who was to live and who to be executed, he reported that ‘It is a literal fact that each man who heard his reprieve wept bitterly, and that each man who heard his condemnation to death went down on his knees, with dry eyes, and thanked God.’10 Yet Maconochie’s aim as superintendent was entirely different. He took over the management of this brutal place, intending to ‘vastly improve all prisoners, and make the Majority even good Men.’11 While he considered punishment to be a necessary deterrent to crime, he believed that ‘its immediate and direct object in every case should be the reform of the criminal.’12 To put this into practice, he instigated a seminal experiment in penal reform, based on the Marks System, an innovative scheme of rewards and penalties of his own devising which aimed at the rehabilitation, rather than merely the punishment and repression, of prisoners.13 The key to the Marks System was that rather than merely serving time, prisoners would work off their sentences by earning marks for a combination of diligent labour and good behaviour, in the process taking responsibility for their own fate. Marks could be spent on immediate needs such as extra rations, but by delaying gratification and saving marks over the long term, prisoners could earn early release.14 Maconochie conceived this system as a ‘moral economy’ and integral to his armoury of reforming influences on the convicts were literature and music, conceived not as abstract aesthetic experiences, but as means of moral improvement, facilitating the prisoners’ transition from selfish brutality to civilised social being.15 This radical shift in tone was most dramatically marked out just three months after his arrival on the island, in a special event to celebrate the birthday of Queen Victoria. According to Sydney newspaper The Colonist, Never was Norfolk Island so gay, or its inhabitants so joyful, as on the 25 May 1840. … The gates were thrown open, and eighteen hundred prisoners were set free, and joined in various amusements … [then] sat down to dinner … They then renewed their sports, or attended a theatrical performance. (West, 1852, 284)16

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Music in a colonial penal colony 171 In the context of the island’s reputation, this was truly shocking, turning on its head the established expectation of what incarceration should be like, especially in a prison which was intended to be for the worst re-​offending prisoners. It seems in particular to have been the relaxed emotional tone of the event which was offensive to the Tory press in Sydney: Our ideas of the penal discipline of Norfolk Island have been rather of a gloomy and austere character; but the terrors of that prison for the doubly convicted have been suddenly and charmingly dispelled. The kindness and amenity of the most fond and tender-​hearted parent could not have done more to sweeten the bitter cup of banishment … than Captain Maconochie has done. … We doubt very much the propriety of this excessive kindness, in penal discipline. We doubt the apparent reformation that is bought by sugar-​ plum and pet indulgences.17 Yet Maconochie was undeterred, and later wrote that he considered this event to have been ‘one of the wisest, and best-​considered acts of my whole administration’, adding that ‘Men out of number have since declared to me that it chiefly contributed to win them. It inspired confidence, affection, and many collateral feelings. It revived the memory of home, and home festivals, which had long been forgotten.’ (My emphasis.) (Maconochie, 1973, 12)18 Both Maconochie’s daring initiative and the press reaction to it suggest that what was at stake here was not simply a local administrative spat in a far-​ flung corner of the British Empire, but a much broader contest over the nature and methods of criminal justice and incarceration in the nineteenth century. Maconochie’s reforms form part of the larger nineteenth-​century change in prison management from physical punishment to psychological control, but that that is only part of the story. A key to making the Marks System work was through the use of intangible cultural heritage to evoke in convicts agreeable memories of home, not just to ‘raise morale’ in a general sense (indeed, as we shall see below, it could risk lowering it), but as a deliberate strategy to change the emotional regime of the prison in support of his overall reform agenda.

The move from physical to psychological punishment O burning hell! in all thy store of torments There’s not a keener lash! Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart

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172  Alan Maddox Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, Can reason down its agonizing throbs; And, after proper purpose of amendment, Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? O happy, happy, enviable man! O glorious magnanimity of soul! (Remorse, Robert Burns, 1824)19 Maconochie’s approach to penal management reflects the influence of colonial Protestantism and the Scottish Enlightenment which also played out in Australian society in the early nineteenth century,20 and fits the pattern of the broader moves in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries from ostentatious physical punishment, such as flogging, towards psychological control. Following Michel Foucault, scholars have shown how this shift from physical to psychological punishment entailed a move from the external to the internal, from the application of the lash to the surface of the body to the imposition of internalised modes of belief and behaviour.21 Maconochie’s system embraced this move away from physical punishment towards psychological control, but diverged from the path of highly individualised psychological punishment used in other systems, in favour of psychosocial methods of reform. The key to Maconochie’s approach was the Marks System, which was designed to provide motivation for moral improvement through self-​discipline, by providing a structure which both allowed and encouraged prisoners to exercise agency. Unlike other contemporary experimental incarceration regimes such as the Separate System,22 the Marks System was thus designed to institutionalise the exercise of power through the use of the carrot as well as the stick. In his copious writings about the Marks System, Maconochie presented it as being aimed primarily at encouraging prisoners to make rational choices for their own betterment, but his innovations relied equally crucially on a change of social organisation and of emotional regime, including organising prisoners into mutually reliant ‘families’ and encouraging them to learn music and read (or listen to) edifying books. The operation of the system therefore cannot be properly understood if we do not take into account the fundamental role of individual and collective emotions in this process, and of the intersections between the emotional life of the prisoners and their encounters with cultural heritage in the form of literature and music.

Emotions and cultural heritage on Norfolk Island Then, should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing,

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Music in a colonial penal colony 173 Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee, Oh! then remember me. (From ‘Go where glory waits thee’, Thomas Moore, 1823)23 Heritage has often been considered a modern concept, and is typically dated from its gradual institutionalisation in policies and legislation beginning in the late nineteenth century; yet, as Emma Waterton and Steve Wilson have noted, ‘interest in heritage and protecting the past’ can be inferred in many societies as far back as the ancient Greeks.24 And while the idea of heritage has been discussed primarily in relation to the preservation of material artefacts, it can apply with equal force to the preservation of intangible cultural heritage. Evidence about how Maconochie set out to deploy cultural heritage comes from documentary accounts, including his own prolific production of pamphlets and official reports, some accounts by convicts and visitors, as well as contemporary press reports. These make clear that a key element in how he aimed to induce this radical change at the levels of both ‘moral economy’ and emotional regime was through a cultural agenda based on exposing prisoners to a selection of literature aimed specifically at stimulating positive emotional states associated with memories of home. As Maconochie noted in his ‘Memorandum on the Formation of a Library at Norfolk Island,’ English history, whether general or special, as naval, military, &c., would all be extremely valuable; and a good collection of the most popular national poetry would be not less so. I would specify, in particular, Dibdin’s and Moore’s Songs, Burn’s, Scott’s, and Crabbe’s Poems, the Waverley Novels, Miss Edgeworth’s Works, Miss Austin’s, Miss Mitford’s, Horace Smith’s, &c. I should attach even special value to such a collection; and I  would rather make it extensive than scrupulously select. I think the object a very important one of thus, and by every other suitable means, investing country and home with agreeable images and recollections. They are too much wanting in the individual experience of our lower and criminal classes in the present day; and they ought to be supplemented. A love of country, and tender recollections of it, are among the purest of human feelings; and in my close observation of the prisoners in these colonies, I have always found them conspicuous in the best characters, and deficient in the worst. (My emphasis)25 In a ‘Memorandum on the Expediency of Cultivating a Taste for Music in Prisoners,’ Maconochie also set out a concise, but thoughtfully argued,

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174  Alan Maddox rationale for the usefulness of music in a prison environment, highlighting its capacity to develop beneficial qualities in the prisoners. These include patience and perseverance in mastering musical skills, and the requirement for social interaction, including subordinating individual will to the collective. He considered music in itself to be ‘elevating and ennobling’ and noted approvingly that it is ‘combined frequently with high and elevating poetry and sentiment.’ He also thought ‘national and plaintive music’ to be beneficial ‘in keeping up patriotic, and other kindly and improving feelings,’ and noted the value of providing prisoners with a ‘stock of future amusement and occupation’ which might wean their minds from ‘former low amusements.’26 In line with this agenda, marks were awarded for activities including playing music, learning instruments or participating in the choirs which he established for his newly built Protestant and Catholic chapels. Hymns and ‘national music’ –​perhaps the songs by Moore, Dibdin and Burns mentioned in the memorandum  –​were also harnessed to reawaken prisoners’ emotional connections to their faraway homelands. Maconochie clearly thought this an important element in his program, as he included an account of it in supplementary notes to his official report to Governor Gipps marking the first year of his tenure on the island. In my Report I have not adverted to the Influence which the Cultivation of Music, … has had among the Men …; Every Sunday Evening we … have Meetings for Sacred Music … On Thursday Evenings after Work we have similar Meetings for general Music, in which I especially seek to encourage patriotic, national, naval, and other Music, calculated to keep up affectionate Recollections of Home; and I attribute much of the general softening of Manners among us to this. (My emphasis)27 For Maconochie, music was thus not mere entertainment, but had dimensions of social ordering, self-​control and emotional regulation through its ability to engage prisoners at several levels: socially, in the acts of rehearsing and performing (and perhaps also listening); intellectually, through messages conveyed in the words of songs; and also emotionally, through both words and music, largely by reminding prisoners of home and of the positive emotions associated with religion, patriotism and their home society. Music served all of these goals in the here-​and-​now of prison life by fostering morally desirable traits of cooperation and subordination, while also distracting prisoners from the harsh reality of prison life. While the individual library books and the music scores and instruments used by the band and chapel choirs on Norfolk Island do not appear to have survived, Maconochie’s clear enumeration of the principal items intended for the library allows us to reconstruct a sense of the way in which these material objects were used in what Monique Scheer, building on the work

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Music in a colonial penal colony 175 of Pierre Bourdieu, calls ‘emotional practices’ –​not just ‘things people do that are accompanied by emotion’ but ‘things people do in order to have emotions.’28 In an environment where prisoners were removed to the other side of the world from the physical sites of their home culture and did not even have personal property to remind them of home  –​no physical artefacts to hold onto as their personal heritage  –​these books of songs and poetry, and even the improving books about agriculture and other practical subjects with which Maconochie populated the prison library, were precious material objects which they could use by singing or reading aloud to recreate their intangible cultural heritage and provoke emotional responses to it. As Laurajane Smith has pointed out, ‘the subject of our heritage “gaze” … is not so much a “thing” as a set of values and meanings. “Heritage” is therefore ultimately a cultural practice, involved in the construction and regulation of a range of values and understandings.’29 This, it seems to me, aptly sums up what Maconochie set out to achieve through musical heritage. The songs were important at least in part because they were for the most part not new, but redolent of long tradition, making them ideal vehicles for ‘investing country and home with agreeable images and recollections,’ and this is surely part of what made them, in Maconochie’s view, effective in connecting convicts to their respective homelands. The songs, and the ideas and memories associated with them, were not just about place, but about a sense of historical connection to the remote ‘imagined community’30 from which they had been exiled. Using music and poetry to deliberately incite emotion in exiles could also be dangerous, however, because strong, emotionally charged memories of a distant home had been considered since at least the seventeenth century to cause a potentially fatal wasting disease, nostalgia, or literally, ‘homesickness.’31 Nostalgia directly links emotion and heritage, since it is an emotional state which is a response specifically to engagement with the past, but it was understood until well into the nineteenth century as an engagement which could easily spiral out of control into a destructively consuming passion. Drawing on the long scientific history of distinguishing between passions and emotions, Louis Charland describes passions as ‘complex long term affective states and processes’ which may organise a range of associated specific emotions into ‘rule-​governed … emotional dispositions and responses.’ Kept within bounds, such passions can be beneficial and provide meaning and purpose, but ‘when they evolve to extremes, passions can become obsessional, or even delusional, and they begin to suck all of an individual’s activities and energy into a single, all-​encompassing, downward spiral … much like an addiction.’32 This sort of destructive spiral was the kind of pathological nostalgia identified, for example, in Swiss mercenaries who, on hearing the music of the rans de vache, a traditional farmers’ song for calling in the cattle, became so ill that, like Heidi in Johanna Spyri’s famous children’s novel, they could only be cured by returning to their

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176  Alan Maddox alpine homeland –​that is, by reconnecting with the places and material culture that they identified as their heritage.33 As a naval officer and a former prisoner of war himself, Maconochie seems likely to have been aware of this medical concept of pathological nostalgia, so why would he deliberately have harnessed memories of home to induce emotional responses in the prisoners? Perhaps because he was convinced that, in combination with the positive incentives of the Marks System, a nostalgia kept within healthy limits could paradoxically reduce prisoners’ sense of alienation. Such an approach would tie in powerfully with his agenda of self-​denial and delayed gratification as moral goods, and in that context it is noteworthy that he did not frame the nostalgic qualities of music and poetry as inducing a longing to return home. Rather, his agenda was about reminding prisoners of who they used to be and the ordinary society, activities and relationships of which they used to be part, so as to induce them to behave in more socially normative ways in the present.

Emotional regimes and the reconfiguration of prison culture Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with care, A burden more than I can bear, I set me down and sigh; O life! thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road, To wretches such as I! (From Despondency: An Ode, Robert Burns, 1824)34 Music and the other cultural activities promoted by Maconochie thus appear to have contributed to prisoners’ emotional regulation, and to the consequent transformation of the emotional tone of the prison colony –​what Maconochie observed as ‘the general softening of Manners among us,’35 or, in William Reddy’s terms, its altered emotional regime36 –​in a way which became a defining feature of Maconochie’s tenure. Such a radical change of social relations and emotional regime was always going to be difficult to achieve because it involved a substantial change of both the prisoners’ and the guards’ habitus –​the set of assumptions about how things work, what is ‘normal’; the automatic, unmediated responses which allow us to navigate through interactions with others.37 To survive prison life under the former regime, prisoners had had to learn a system of self-​constraint which became internalised, including being required to step off the road to allow soldiers to pass, and to salute when passing even a vacant sentry box.38 But now they were to be treated, if not as equals, at least as individual human beings. Maconochie’s program was thus aimed in part to reframe their habitus away from second-​nature servitude towards self-​ awareness and individual responsibility. Indeed, Maconochie was explicit in his recognition that constant repression had taken away the convicts’ ability to self-​regulate their emotions, and

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Music in a colonial penal colony 177 saw overcoming this through the process of learning to delay gratification as one of the moral benefits of the Marks System. [I]‌t is a great Mistake to think that generally Prisoners want Feeling; it is quite the reverse; they have too much, compared with the Scope at present allowed to their Reason and Reflection. They thus never balance distant Considerations against near ones, but fling themselves Head foremost in any Direction the latter prompts. ‘Liberty for Marks’  –​ the long consistent following of a distant Object through present Self-​ denial, –​will cure them.39 Yet, he also recognised that the changes of behaviour which the Marks System was intended to encourage were not purely a matter of individual selfish motivation for prisoners, as the theories of Adam Smith or Jeremy Bentham might have suggested. To make his system work also required a reconfiguration of the social relationships within the prison, both between prisoners themselves and between prisoners and guards. He spoke to convicts individually, and personally preached at religious services; above all, he treated the convicts as individuals, responding to their resistance with a clear path to self-​regulation rather than with simple repression.

Emotions and religious heritage Jesus, I my cross have taken, All to leave and follow thee: Destitute, despised, forsaken, Thou from hence my all shalt be. Perish, every fond ambition, All I’ve sought, and hoped, and known; Yet how rich is my condition, God and heaven are still my own! (Rev. H.F. Lyte, Poems, Chiefly Religious [London: James Nisbet, 1833], 41) Religious discourse was also key to both Maconochie’s motivation and his methods. In contrast to the old regime, which maintained some of the outward forms of religion but very little of its spiritual or compassionate practice, Maconochie’s vision was fundamentally religious. As well as prioritising the construction of Protestant and Catholic chapels and establishing choirs for each, he made a room available to the Jewish prisoners for worship. In addition to its explicitly religious function, each of these spaces could then function as an emotional refuge40 from the rigours of the public life of the prison, just as musical evenings provided an emotional release and also an opportunity to reinforce the kinds of patriotic and communal emotions

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178  Alan Maddox which Maconochie saw as beneficial. Re-​ engaging prisoners with their religious heritage, in part through sacred music, and regardless of which tradition they belonged to and whether it coincided with his own religious convictions, thus formed part of his dual scheme of social control and moral improvement. We might therefore postulate Maconochie’s model for the beneficial emotional action of cultural heritage in something like the following terms: music and literature associated with the homeland trigger memories of home, producing a benign sense of nostalgia. This experience contributes to the creation of an emotional regime characterised by ‘kindly and improving feelings,’ which may even be ‘high,’ ‘elevating’ and ‘ennobling.’ This softened emotional tone reinforces the impulse to self-​ improvement and cooperation fostered by the ‘moral economy’ of the Marks System. As a result, the prisoner reconfigures his habitus, showing himself capable of being rehabilitated as a responsible, contributing member of society and achieves freedom (or –​ if transported for life –​at least a more constructive sense of self with which to live out his imprisonment). Thus music, because of its special power to evoke nostalgia, powerfully reinforced the parallel roles of reading and religion to achieve the liberal social goal of moral improvement of the individual, neatly coinciding with the institutional goal of social control and reducing resistance.

Epilogue When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved, Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then, Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed, Weep o’er them in silence and close it again. And oh! if ‘tis pain to remember how far From the pathways of light he was tempted to roam, Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star Which arose on his darkness, and guided him home. (From ‘When cold in the earth’, Thomas Moore, 1823)41 Maconochie’s strategy of reform was politically risky, in part because it looked to critics in Sydney as if he was being soft on crime. At the outset, the celebration of Queen Victoria’s birthday symbolically reframed the emotional regime of the island as one allowing relative freedom and even a degree of enjoyment, against the dominant view of the Sydney press that, in Governor of New South Wales Sir George Gipps’s words, the purpose of the prison was to be ‘a terror to evil-​doers.’42 Thus, it appears that a key to both the effectiveness of Maconochie’s system and to the visceral resistance to it, and its ultimate bringing down, was its radical reconfiguration of the emotional tone of incarceration. While opposition to Maconochie in the

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Music in a colonial penal colony 179 Sydney press was sometimes couched in terms of philosophical concepts of what punishment is, or its purposes, the sarcastic, mocking tone of much of the commentary suggests that a sticking point was the emotional flavour of Maconochie’s reforms. Symptomatic is the fact that although the Queen’s Birthday theatrical performances were never repeated, the Sydney Herald was still referring to the island two years later as the ‘head quarters of fiddle and fun.’43 Maconochie’s discourse of improvement was drowned out by that of punishment, and after four years his experiment was closed down. Yet, despite the limitations under which it was conducted, which effectively set it up to fail, he still considered its fundamental principles to be sound, and its benefits to have been amply demonstrated. As he wrote afterwards, ‘I found the Island a turbulent, brutal hell, and I left it a peaceful well-​ordered community … My task was not really so difficult as it may appear. I was working with Nature, and not against her, as all other prison systems do.’44 Having been relieved of his post in 1844, Maconochie returned to England, and after a brief and ultimately unsuccessful stint as a prison director in Birmingham, he devoted himself primarily to pamphleteering, writing on a variety of topics, but above all continuing to advocate the Marks System. And in the long run, it was Maconochie’s ideas which would come to be seen as the way forward. Just as his Marks System laid the groundwork for modern systems of parole and remission of sentences, his pioneering experiments in rehabilitation through education, cultural activities and the ‘softening’ of the prison’s harsh emotional regime paved the way for more enlightened prison management policies in modern times. This is not a teleological narrative of inevitable progress, however; the civilising process is contingent and fragile, particularly when it comes to prisons and, as Maconochie discovered, it can be subject to ‘decivilising’ countertrends.45 What, then, can we say about the intersection of heritage and emotions in Norfolk Island in the 1840s? It is striking in the first place that a concern with the emotional burden of artefacts of the past, both material and intangible, paradoxically played a significant role in what was arguably the most progressive and forward-​thinking experiment in penal reform in the mid-​nineteenth century. In the most unlikely of environments, a man who saw himself as entirely practical purposefully deployed music and poetry connected with home and the past to manage the emotions of men in the present. Perhaps considering heritage in this way –​as a concept with a history of its own, which includes intangible as well as material heritage, and which is enmeshed with the history of emotions and with penal ­history –​ also offers a way of subverting what Laurajane Smith has called the ‘authorized heritage discourse’ which ‘naturalizes the practice of rounding up the usual suspects to conserve and “pass on” to future generations, and in so doing promotes a certain set of Western elite cultural values as being universally applicable.’46 Maconochie’s remarkable experiment also reminds us that the heritage narratives connected with ‘places of pain and shame’47

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180  Alan Maddox such as Norfolk Island can go beyond interpretation of the material vestiges which are most immediately apparent in archaeological sites, and encompass equally powerful accounts of intangible heritage.

Notes 1 F. McLynn, Crime and Punishment in Eighteenth-​Century England (London; New York: Routledge, 1989), xi. 2 Marian Quartly, ‘Convicts’, The Oxford Companion to Australian History, ed. G. Davison, J. Hirst and S. Macintyre (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). www.oxfordreference.com/​10.1093/​acref/​9780195515039.001.0001/​acref-​ 9780195515039-​e-​363 (accessed 8 October 2017). 3 Arthur to Hay, 23 March 1827, Australia, Parliament, Library Committee, Historical Records of Australia. Series III. Despatches and Papers Relating to the Settlement of the States, Vol. 5, ed. F. Watson (Sydney: Library Committee of the Commonwealth Parliament, 1922), 676. 4 Megan Best, ‘Norfolk Island:  Thanatourism, History and Visitor Emotions’, Shima:  The International Journal of Research into Island Cultures 1:2 (2007),  30–​48. 5 Ibid.; J. Lennon, ‘Port Arthur, Norfolk Island, New Caledonia: Convict Prison Islands in the Antipodes’, Places of Pain and Shame: Dealing with ‘difficult heritage’, ed. W. Logan and K. Reeves (London; New York: Routledge, 2009). 6 Robert Burns, The Works of Robert Burns, to Which is Prefixed a Life of the Author, by James Currie, M.D. (London: Thomas Tegg, 1824), 352. 7 J.V. Barry, ‘Maconochie, Alexander (1787–​ 1860)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography Online (Canberra:  Australian National University and University of Melbourne, 2006). http://​adb.anu.edu.au/​biography/​maconochie-​alexander-​ 2417/​text3207 (accessed 11 October 2016). 8 J. Backhouse, G.W. Walker and A.  Maconochie, ‘Original Essays on Convict Discipline by Captain Alexander Maconochie, 1837, with Some Letters Etc. in Further Illustration of the Same Subject by J.  Backhouse and G.W. Walker 1837’, UTAS ePrints (Hobart: University of Tasmania Library Special and Rare Materials Collections, 2010), 49. 9 Barry, ‘Maconochie, Alexander (1787–​1860)’. 10 W.B. Ullathorne, The Autobiography of Archbishop Ullathorne: With Selections from His Letters (London: Burns and Oates, 1891), 103. 11 Colonial Office, Great Britain, Copies or Extracts of any Correspondence between the Secretary of State having the Department of the Colonies and the Governor of New South Wales: Respecting the Convict System Administered in Norfolk Island under the Superintendence of Captain Maconochie (London:  R.N, 1960), 5. 12 A. Maconochie, Norfolk Island [London, 1847], reprint ed. (Hobart: Sullivan’s Cove, 1973), 24. 13 There is a considerable literature on Maconochie’s career and prison management system from the point of view of criminology. See, for example, J.V. Barry, Alexander Maconochie of Norfolk Island: A Study of a Pioneer in Penal Reform (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1958); J. Clay, Maconochie’s Experiment (London: John Murray, 2001); N. Morris, Maconochie’s Gentlemen: The Story

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Music in a colonial penal colony 181 of Norfolk Island and the Roots of Modern Prison Reform (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2002). 14 A. Maconochie, Crime and Punishment:  The Mark System Framed to Mix Persuasion with Punishment, and Make Their Effect Improving, yet Their Operation Severe (London: J. Hatchard, 1846). 15 For a detailed account of the role of music in Maconochie’s regime, including a close analysis of his ‘Memorandum on the Expediency of Cultivating a Taste for Music in Prisoners’, see A.  Maddox, ‘On the Machinery of Moral Improvement: Music and Prison Reform in the Penal Colony on Norfolk Island’, Musicology Australia 34:2 (2012), 185–​205. 16 J. West, History of Tasmania, vol. 2 (Launceston: 1852), 284; Quoted in Barry, Alexander Maconochie, 102. A fuller account of the Queen’s Birthday performances and their aftermath is given in R. Jordan, The Convict Theatres of Early Australia 1788–​1840 (Strawberry Hills, NSW: Currency House, 2002), 184–​99. 17 ‘Captain Maconochie’s System’, The Colonist, 1 July 1840, 2. 18 A. Maconochie, Norfolk Island [London, 1847]. (Hobart: Sullivan’s Cove, 1973), 12. 19 Burns, The Works of Robert Burns, 195. 20 J. Gascoigne, The Enlightenment and the Origins of European Australia (Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 21 M. Foucault, Discipline and Punish:  The Birth of the Prison (New  York: Vintage, 1977). 22 M. Schmid, ‘ “The Eye of God”:  Religious Beliefs and Punishment in Early Nineteenth-​Century Prison Reform’, Theology Today 59 (2003): 546–​58. 23 T. Moore, The Works of Thomas Moore, Vol. 4 (Paris:  A.  and W.  Galignani, 1823), 11. 24 E. Waterton and S. Watson, ‘Heritage as a Focus of Research: Past, Present and New Directions’, The Palgrave Handbook of Contemporary Heritage Research, ed. E. Waterton and S. Watson (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 3. 25 A. Maconochie, ‘Memorandum on the Formation of a Library at Norfolk Island’, Great Britain, Parliament, Convict Discipline and Transportation (London: Government Printer, 1865). 26 A. Maconochie, ‘Memorandum on the Expediency of Cultivating a Taste for Music in Prisoners’, Great Britain, Parliament, Convict Discipline and Transportation (London: Government Printer, 1865). 27 A. Maconochie, ‘Report to Sir George Gipps, 20 March, 1841’, Copies or Extracts of Any Correspondence between the Secretary of State having the Department of the Colonies and the Governor of New South Wales: Respecting the Convict System Administered in Norfolk Island under the Superintendence of Captain Maconochie, R.N. (London: Government Printer, 1846), 24. 28 M. 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 51:2 (2012): 194. 29 L. Smith, Uses of Heritage (New York: Routledge, 2006), 11. 30 B.R.O. Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 2006). 31 F. Clarke, ‘So Lonesome I  Could Die:  Nostalgia and Debates over Emotional Control in the Civil War North’, Journal of Social History 41:2 (2007): 253–​82.

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182  Alan Maddox 32 L.C. Charland, ‘Why Science Needs “Passion” ’, Histories of Emotion from Medieval Europe to Contemporary Australia, 14 August 2015. Online. http://​ historiesofemotion.com/​2015/​08/​14/​why-​science-​needs-​passion/​ (accessed 3 September 2015). 33 K. Goodman, ‘Romantic Poetry and the Science of Nostalgia’, The Cambridge Companion to British Romantic Poetry, ed M.N. McLane (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 201; J. Spyri, Heidi’s Lehr-​und Wanderjahre: eine Geschichte für Kinder und auch für Solche, welche die Kinder lieb haben (Gotha:  Perthes, 1880). The song ‘Lochaber’ was said to produce a similar response in Scots  –​see Sylvanus Urban, ‘[Letters to the Editor Regarding the Rans des Vaches]’, The Gentleman’s Magazine and Historical Chronicle 82 (1812): 237. 34 Burns, The Works of Robert Burns, 90. 35 Alexander Maconochie, ‘Report to Sir George Gipps, 20 March, 1841’, 24. 36 W.M. Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling:  A Framework for the History of Emotions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 129. 37 N. Elias, ‘The Social Constraint towards Self-​ Constraint’, Norbert Elias on Civilization, Power, and Knowledge:  Selected Writings, ed. S.  Mennell and J. Goudsblom (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998). 38 A. Maconochie, Norfolk Island (London, 1848), 8. 39 A. Maconochie, ‘Observations … on the Returns of Crime among the English Prisoners’, Copies or Extracts of Any Correspondence between the Secretary of State having the Department of the Colonies and the Governor of New South Wales: Respecting the Convict System Administered in Norfolk Island under the Superintendence of Captain Maconochie, R.N. (London:  Government Printer, 1846), 42. 40 W.M. Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling:  A Framework for the History of Emotions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 128–​9. 41 Moore, The Works of Thomas Moore, 4, 182. 42 ‘A Memorandum on Lord John Russell’s note on Transportation and Secondary Punishment, dated the 2d January 1839’, Copies or Extracts of Any Correspondence between the Secretary of State Having the Department of the Colonies and the Governor of New South Wales:  Respecting the Convict System Administered in Norfolk Island under the Superintendence of Captain Maconochie, R.N. (London: Government Printer, 1846), 17. 43 ‘The Governor’s Opinion of Norfolk Island Amusements’, The Sydney Herald, 5 May 1842, 2. 44 Maconochie, Norfolk Island (1848), 17. 45 J. Pratt, ‘Punishment and “the Civilizing Process” ’, The SAGE Handbook of Punishment and Society, ed. J.  Simon and R.  Sparks (London:  Sage, 2013). http://​sk.sagepub.com/​reference/​hdbk_​punishment-​society (accessed 10 October 2017). 46 L. Smith, Uses of Heritage (New York: Routledge, 2006), 11. 47 W.S. Logan and K. Reeves (eds), Places of Pain and Shame: Dealing with ‘Difficult Heritage’ (London; New York: Routledge, 2009).

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11  Murdering Snow and ruling the north The rise and fall of affective colonialism and the advent of heritage tourism in New Zealand Kristyn Harman Located on Auckland’s north shore, Devonport is strongly associated with the sea, not least because of its significant heritage as the site of New Zealand’s first naval presence. As New Zealand experienced a turn towards tourism in the 1980s, the Devonport Borough Council resolved at a meeting on 29 May 1985 to install on concrete plinths along the foreshore ‘suitably inscribed plaques … to mark six of Devonport’s historic sites.’ The majority interpret the suburb’s close association with boat-​building, shipyards and the navy, including ‘the first Devonport wharf, also known as Duder’s wharf’ and ‘Torpedo Bay named after the torpedo boats which berthed at the naval wharf from 1886.’1 These sites perpetuate a celebratory narrative of Pākehā (as the white newcomers came to be known) conquest, consolidation and colonial expansion. Seemingly out of step with this maritime theme is another bronze plaque. Taken at face value, its point of divergence seems to be that it marks the site of the murder of a colonial family and their murderer’s subsequent execution. However, the murdered father and the murderer were both one-​time Royal Navy men. This connection with the sea, so integral to their stories, was not mentioned on the plaque inscribed in 1986 by Worrall Jewellers.2 The text, imbued with the authority of the council’s seal, reads:  ‘Execution Site. This is the site of the murder of Lt. Snow and his family in 1848 and the subsequent public execution of the murderer, Joseph Burns.’3 The plaque, incorrectly ascribing the year of the execution, 1848, to the year of the murders (which took place in 1847), was installed on a wide grassy verge with a pavement on one side and the water on the other, ‘more or less opposite 7 King Edward Parade,’ where it continues to stand.4 Taking this bronze plaque as a touchstone, this chapter examines the processes through which New Zealanders initially reacted to, then much later reinscribed as part of the nation’s heritage, an event still described as ‘one of New Zealand’s most sensational crimes.’5 I explore the tangible and intangible associations of the North Shore plaque site with the then-​ fledgling colony’s encounters in 1847 and 1848 with blood, death, suspicion, colonial law and justice. I  canvass the affective responses to the

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184  Kristyn Harman bloody events the plaque commemorates, responses which peaked during the colonial period when sovereignty over the nation remained at stake before diminishing more recently into diffuse reactions. Surveying the historic events that the plaque commemorates, exploring colonists’ emotional responses to the Snow murders and examining retellings of this history, I  argue that a shared affective colonialism gripped New Zealand in the mid-​nineteenth century before giving way to the emergence of four key post-​colonial narratives.

A crime of appalling turpitude The first recorded encounter between Māori and Europeans occurred in 1642 when Dutch explorer Abel Tasman visited the islands. However, it was not until almost 200 years later that New Zealand became a British colony following the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi in 1840. This drew to a close around half-​a-​century of informal European settlement but heralded decades of sporadic conflict between the original occupants of the land and the newcomers. During the New Zealand wars of the nineteenth century some Māori fought against the British while others sided with the crown.6 Conversely, a few Pākehā sided with Māori and became known as ‘Pākehā Māori.’7 Against this complicated backdrop of colonial encounter, colonisation, shifting loyalties and allegiances and sporadic frontier warfare, the sensational murder of the Snow family took place on Auckland’s North Shore in the early hours of Saturday, 23 October 1847. After taking a reduction to half-​ pay from the Royal Navy, in 1841 Lieutenant Robert Snow was put in charge of the Naval Magazine at Devonport where he also ran the Naval Stores Department. He served briefly as the first signalman at Mt Victoria and was also the Royal Navy’s pension pay officer.8 Like many early colonists, Snow lived in a raupō (Typha orientalis) hut likely built for him by local Māori.9 He shared this home with his wife, Hannah, and their youngest daughter, six-​year-​old Mary. An older daughter, aged eight, lived away from home to attend school. In the small yet growing community of 5,000 colonists in and around Auckland, most people knew each other at least by sight or through gossip and innuendo.10 Rumours about Snow abounded, particularly one relating to a large sum of cash he was said to have concealed in his hut.11 Not all colonists enjoyed status or material success like Snow. At the other end of the spectrum was former ship’s carpenter Joseph Burns, a man who once described himself as ‘the poorest man on the North Shore.’12 Like Snow, Burns was in the Royal Navy, but did not rise to the rank of officer. After surviving the 1840 shipwreck of the HMS Buffalo at the Bay of Islands in New Zealand, Burns found work with a local boat builder but his drinking habit saw the job fall through. Burns was later dismissed from jobs at a market garden and as a stock keeper, leaving him reliant on

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Heritage tourism in New Zealand 185 casual work from Māori rangatira (leader) Eruera Maihi Pautone. He and his common-​law ‘wife’ Margaret Reardon eked out a living from the land, with the woman growing vegetables and Burns putting up a shack to shelter the couple and their two sons.13 Motivated by a desire to enrich himself with Snow’s hoarded gold sovereigns and household goods, Burns allegedly told his partner Reardon about his intention to kill Snow, although he later claimed in a confession recorded on the eve his execution that the robbery and murders had all been her idea. He left their shack at 6 pm on the eve of the murders, taking with him an axe and a bayonet. Burns was said to have returned home six hours later, telling Reardon that he had carried his plan into effect. Whether she had accompanied and assisted him remains speculative but possible. The Snows’ hoard, which was located and stolen, amounted to £12. While this was a considerable sum, Burns had anticipated more. The bodies of the couple and their youngest daughter were discovered after flames consuming their raupo hut were noticed from the HMS Dido anchored off-​shore. When the family was not found sheltering at nearby Oliver’s hut or at the signalman Duder’s, an excavation of the ruins of their home uncovered three partially burnt corpses. Their injuries were inconsistent with solely being victims of a house fire. Burns, possibly with Reardon’s assistance, had mutilated their bodies in an attempt to frame Māori for the murders, a strategy that was initially successful. Stories about several episodes of conflict between Snow and some apparently vengeful Māori, coupled with persistent rumours of two Māori canoes slipping away under cover of darkness from the murder scene, added weight to initial impressions formed by both Māori and Pākehā witnesses at the crime scene that as-​yet-​unidentified Māori were the perpetrators. Many months passed before Burns’ deceit and culpability were exposed.14 As Jacqueline Van Gent has observed, as Europeans encountered different peoples and cultures, ‘ “New Worlds” became spaces for emotional projections of fear and anxiety.’15 As colonists’ emotional responses to the Snow murders indicate, her proposition can be extrapolated to a New Zealand context. One of Auckland’s newspapers, the New Zealander, did not hesitate to situate the Snow murders within the broader context of frontier warfare, locating the deaths within a trajectory of inter-​cultural violence that ensued in the aftermath of the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi. It reported how ‘the tables are turned upon us at last.’ ‘Auckland,’ the New Zealander declaimed, ‘which had been so long proud of its own comparative security, has now become the scene of a tragedy, more frightful if possible, than any of those which have stained other settlements.’ It went on to list several violent inter-​cultural conflicts perpetrated elsewhere in the colony. It revisited the Wairau incident at the top of the South Island where fighting between colonists trying to survey the land and Māori who had not ceded ownership led to deaths on both sides, as well the murders by Māori of two colonial families. Both families, the Gillespies at the Hutt and the Gilfallans

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186  Kristyn Harman at Wanganui, were murdered at North Island settlements ‘at a period of high excitement, and in a time of war.’ The murders in the far north of the North Island of the Roberton family and friends by Maketu were revisited and attributed to ‘the mere appetite of blood in the savage that committed it.’ In a further allusion to cannibalism, the New Zealander observed how the murders for which Maketu was hanged were ‘unaccompanied by such circumstances of additional atrocity, as, in this [Snow] case, we have too much reason to fear.’ It went into some detail about how ‘large pieces of flesh’ had been cut from all three corpses.16 The Daily Southern Cross reported how the murder of the Snow family ‘has cast a gloomy shadow over all our hearts.’ It observed that ‘no crime of dye so deep has heretofore disgraced our annals.’ After referring to the murders as invoking ‘startling horror’ and ‘harrowing reminiscences’ that were ‘engraven upon our memories,’ the Daily Southern Cross posed the question no doubt on many Aucklanders’ lips: Is this but a more than ordinary atrocious development of individual savage revenge, or, is it a display of national enmity, a token fraught with fearful meaning, that the bonds of amity and peace hitherto connecting the settlers and natives in unsuspicious intercourse, are about to be forever severed?17 The Daily Southern Cross took issue with the New Zealander’s reportage, claiming that it was premature to assume that there had been any marked change discernible in the attitudes of local Māori towards settlers. It also cast doubt upon its competitor’s comparison between the Snow murders and those of other colonial families, claiming with remarkable foresight that the Auckland-​based crime was ‘entirely distinct from them in character.’18 News of the crime spread to Wellington, where the Independent informed its readership about the Snow murders more than a fortnight after the event. ‘Horror and dismay filled every heart,’ it told its readership, ‘when intelligence was authentically promulgated, that Lieutenant Snow and his family had been barbarously murdered.’ The Independent also provided a full report of the coronial inquest and covered the funeral of the Snows, an ‘imposing solemnity of a spectacle the like of which has never been seen in Auckland.’19 Despite some differences in opinion, all of the colonial newspapers agreed that the Snow murders invoked fear in the hearts and horror in the minds of Auckland’s colonial population. Answers as to the identity or identities and motivation of the perpetrator(s) were required. Only then could colonists’ fears and anxieties be assuaged. Bigger questions as to who would ultimately rule the land, colonists or Māori, were left hanging as impending warfare appeared possible. Large-​scale military interventions by either side could disrupt severely the balance of power in the colony. In what seemed to be a matter entirely unrelated to the Snow murders, Burns was found guilty at the Supreme Court at the end of February 1848

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Heritage tourism in New Zealand 187 of ‘cutting and wounding Margaret Reardon, with intent to do her some bodily harm.’ In telling Burns that he was to be transported ‘for the term of your natural life,’ Chief Justice William Martin observed how only the intervention of others had prevented Reardon’s likely death at Burns’ hands.20 In mid-​March and following a visit to her former partner Burns at the gaol, Reardon appeared before Martin, claiming to have overheard Burns’ former shipmate and Snow’s neighbour signalman Thomas Duder telling Burns that he wanted to rob Snow. She also tried to attach some blame to Duder’s brother-​ in-​ law, William Oliver, another of Burns’ shipmates from the HMS Buffalo. However, her evidence was not believed. The Daily Southern Cross described Reardon as having a ‘notoriously bad character.’ As Megan Simpson has explained, women who were known (as Reardon was) to be drinkers often had their testimony challenged by the courts.21 Duder and Oliver were both set free. The Daily Southern Cross thought the motive behind the tale-​telling could ‘be accounted for from the fact that it was Duder, who, influenced by the feelings of an honest man, informed the gentleman who employed Burns as a stockkeeper, of his servant’s mal practices, which resulted in the dismissal of Burns and the engagement of Oliver.’ Reardon was retained in custody.22 This, though, was only part of the story. On 1 June 1848, Burns appeared before Martin at the Supreme Court charged with the murder of Lieutenant Snow. The colonial surgeon gave a graphic account of the Snows’ wounds, deducing that they ‘were inflicted by a hatchet.’ A soldier recalled finding the family’s blood-​soaked garments at the murder scene, including ‘parts of a child’s trowsers … marks of fresh blood was upon them.’ Reardon was also called as a witness. She retold the tale of Burns’ earlier assault, claiming that he had tried to force Reardon into marriage then turned violent when spurned. Had Reardon married Burns, she would not have been able to tender her evidence against him in relation to the Snow murders, damning evidence which she gave at his trial on 1 June. Retired barrister Terry Carson has recently shed some doubt on this explanation for Burns’ assault on Reardon, though, claiming that it seems more likely that the attack resulted from an unresolved property dispute between the pair fuelled by Burns’ desire to leave the colony and to take one of their sons with him. He has suggested that Reardon was likely schooled at length beforehand as to what to say when giving evidence against Burns.23 Regardless of Reardon not being considered a particularly reliable witness and despite her possible involvement in the crime, Burns was found guilty, at which he then exclaimed ‘I am as innocent of the crime as the child unborn.’24 Martin told Burns at his sentencing hearing that he was to ‘be taken to … the place of execution, and there be hanged by the neck till you be dead.’ Being judicially executed at the scene of the crime was a punishment reserved for highwaymen and for the most heinous offences. As Martin told Burns, ‘even when that crime was regarded as the deed of some

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188  Kristyn Harman of the least reclaimed amongst a people just emerging from barbarism, even then it appeared to be marked by a strange and surprising degree of hardihood [boldness] and ferocity.’25 The date for the execution was set for the following Saturday. In its report of Burns’ execution, the New Zealander described the Snow murders as a ‘crime of … appalling turpitude.’ The prisoner refused to confess until the eve of his execution. That same Friday evening, Burns ‘took farewell of his children’ with their separation described as ‘the most harrowing; they were literally torn from his embrace.’ The New Zealander opined that the ‘affection borne by Burns to his hapless offspring’ was ‘almost the sole perceptible touch which could be traced between this savage and his kind.’ According to the Daily Southern Cross the government wanted Burns’ execution to be ‘as imposing a spectacle as possible.’ It was rumoured that ‘official notice of the execution has been sent to the natives for ten miles around Auckland, in order to secure a large attendance.’ Consistent with V.A.C. Gattrell’s claim that as the nineteenth century progressed ‘hostility to scaffold gatherings deepened,’ the Daily Southern Cross railed against the brutality of such ‘disgusting and inhuman exhibitions,’ claiming that public hangings had a ‘powerful effect’ on good men but almost none on the ‘inferior’ classes in society for whom such salutary lessons were intended.26 Nevertheless, on Saturday morning, escorted by the usual dignitaries and a detachment of soldiers, Burns was taken to the Auckland waterfront (Figure 11.1) and joined by a flotilla of colonial watercraft and Māori canoes conveying European passengers as he was taken across the harbour to the execution site. The condemned man sat upon his coffin, where the Reverend Churton cried and prayed over him. Burns apologised to Duder, blaming Reardon for the lies told against him, before being hanged upon a temporary scaffold. Burns became the first Pākehā to be judicially executed in New Zealand.27 In September 1848, Margaret Reardon appeared before Martin at the Supreme Court indicted for ‘wilful and corrupt perjury’ but was not charged as having been an accessory to the Snow murders. Despite Reardon claiming in court that Burns told her ‘that he would drink my heart’s blood,’ amongst other threats, the Chief Justice had no sympathy for the woman, whose lies could conceivably have seen innocent men, Duder and Oliver, hanged for a crime they did not commit.28 He may also have doubted the validity of the fears Reardon claimed to entertain in relation to Burns. Under the circumstances, Reardon was perhaps fortunate to be found guilty of perjury which, while serious, would not result in a death sentence. Martin sentenced her to transportation for seven years.29

Everyone loves a story In explaining how ‘everyone loves a story,’ Janet Holmes has observed how ‘there are many different kinds of stories,’ including ‘artistically crafted

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Heritage tourism in New Zealand 189

Figure 11.1 ‘Auckland, New Zealand’ (1853) by Walter Scarlett Hatton (1873–​1938). Used with permission of the Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. Ref: B-​078-​012.

cultural myths.’30 In the twenty-​ first century, the events surrounding the Snow murders have coalesced into cultural mythology. There is not simply one retelling of this story, but multiple accounts, with each being crafted according to the standpoint and motivation of its author(s). They share a common feature in that the intensity of emotion evident in the 1840s newspaper accounts of the murders, trials and execution of Burns is substantially watered down. These narratives can be grouped into categories: the navy’s tale, the descendants’ tale and the historians’ tales. Just one thematic narrative, the convict historians’ tale, privileges Reardon, although a legal historian has written a case note about this historically significant woman. Each teller of this heritage tale, whether institutional or individual, is imbued with differing degrees of authority. For example, institutional histories such as those produced by the Royal New Zealand Navy and formally published with its logo rendered highly visible may be read as a more authenticated rendering of the past than tales told by descendants of those involved in the original scandal. The latter may be considered to have more of an emotional investment in their story as they have a closer personal connection to the events that transpired in the nineteenth century. Whether and to what extent emotional responses are deliberately solicited from readers of, or listeners to, such heritage tales depends on the agenda of those doing the telling as well as on the capacity of the audience to respond and the temporal and spatial context in which such histories are reproduced.

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190  Kristyn Harman The Royal New Zealand Navy was founded in October 1941 but looks back to the colony’s first governor, Captain William Hobson from the Royal Navy, to trace its origins while reimagining and reconstructing its heritage.31 Writing about the Windsor Reserve at Devonport, which forms part of the suburb’s military history trail, Navy Museum guide Russ Glackin has asserted unequivocally that ‘it is here where the Navy in New Zealand had its beginnings.’ He observed how ‘the first 50 years of the country’s Naval Base are recorded on a series of memorial plaques that are dotted across [and beyond] the Reserve as a reminder that the Navy has had a presence here as long as there has been an Auckland.’32 Glackin elides the fact that this naval presence was a British one. Within this paradigm, Snow becomes a ‘founding father’ figure, the man who was ‘effectively the first officer in charge [of] … the first Naval Base in Devonport.’ The heroic founder and his family are then described as being ‘hacked to death with a tomahawk by one Joseph Burns.’ Glackin added that Burns was hanged at the scene of the crime and was ‘the first European to be officially executed in New Zealand.’33 Entirely absent from Glackin’s account was the signalman Duder, the man falsely accused by Reardon of having killed the Snows. Duder becomes the principal character in the Michael King Writers’ Centre’s narratives about the signalmen who occupied the site on which the Signalman’s House now stands. This building houses the centre’s facilities as well as visiting writers.34 Five of the 18 paragraphs devoted to telling the stories of Mt Victoria’s 12 signalmen feature Duder. He appears as the wronged man enveloped in a ‘huge scandal’ as Duder suffered public opprobrium in the face of false accusations that he murdered the Snows. The culprit, Burns, is described as ‘a former shipmate of Duder’s from the Buffalo,’ relegating him to a secondary role in the narrative. In the aftermath of the Snow murders and Burns’ execution, Duder is described as having become ‘a highly respected member of the Devonport community as well as a successful businessman.’ A  local street has been named after Duder, and his descendants ‘are still prominent’ in Devonport.35 Burns has attracted attention from historians, particularly those with an interest in crime and punishment, in his capacity as the first Pākehā to be judicially executed in New Zealand. He has his own entry in Te Ara –​ the Encyclopedia of New Zealand, in which his biographer Janice Mogford traces Burns’ beginnings back to Liverpool in England where he was born to Irish parents. She recapitulates his naval career and less-​ salubrious employment record around Auckland as well as his familial relationship with Reardon and their sons before introducing Snow into her narrative. Burns remains the central character, murdering Snow, being abandoned by Reardon, threatening Reardon, making a false confession incriminating Duder and Oliver, being tried for murder, then finally being ‘the first European in the colony to be executed for a capital crime.’ Reardon’s

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Heritage tourism in New Zealand 191 sentence to transportation for perjury takes up a little over one line and concludes Mogford’s story.36 Margaret Reardon takes centre stage in narratives compiled by researchers with a particular interest in her as the only women sentenced to transportation from New Zealand or, conversely, the only female convict who arrived in Van Diemen’s Land (since renamed Tasmania) from New Zealand. Legal historian Megan Simpson created a case note in which she explored Reardon’s shifting subject position ‘as victim, witness and accused’ in the three Supreme Court cases in which Reardon was involved in 1848. For Simpson, Reardon’s case ‘is of historical importance as she was the only woman to ever be sentenced to transportation in New Zealand’ and also provides a lens through which it is possible to unravel ‘how women were dealt with by the courts in the early colony.’ Burns, Snow and Duder are all present in Simpson’s narrative as secondary characters.37 Convict researcher Liz Rushen has written a biographical narrative about Reardon for a collection of biographies about female convicts in Van Diemen’s Land in which she traced the woman’s arrival as a young Irish girl to Sydney and her failed marriage in New South Wales to a much older man. Rushen then focuses on Reardon’s relocation to New Zealand, her fraught relationship with Burns and her peripheral involvement in the Snow murders. She tracks the migration of Reardon’s sister, Sophia, with her husband and family, including Reardon’s sons, to the United States of America and also examines Reardon’s life as a convict in Van Diemen’s Land. Rushen tells the tale of Reardon’s remarriage, the births (and deaths) of more children, her migration to Victoria and her eventual death on 9 April 1890 from ‘old age and exhaustion’ at Castlemaine hospital.38 Narratives privileging Snow, Duder or Burns as lead characters position each man as symbolic of a seminal moment in New Zealand’s colonial history. Snow founded the first naval base in New Zealand, Duder overcame scandal to found not only a successful business empire but also a dynasty, while Burns takes on heightened significance as the first Pākehā to be hanged for a capital crime in New Zealand. Reardon is considered to be historically significant by dint of being the only woman transported from New Zealand to Van Diemen’s Land, yet narratives exploring her story utilise her subject position as a means through which to open up a dialogue about everyday experiences of colonial women as daughters, sisters, mothers and workers and less-​common experiences of women in colonial courtrooms. As these narratives have transformed the Snow murders into cultural mythology, the raw emotions that wracked the colony at the time of the event have all but faded away.

Heritage tours to the scene of the crime Dark tourism is an analytical framework pioneered in 1996 that was initially applied to tourist sites of death and destruction.39 This framework has

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192  Kristyn Harman since been extended to include sites associated with crime, such as the site at which Burns is said to have committed mass murder and been hanged. The bronze plaque installed opposite 7 King Edward Street conveys to viewers sparse details about the location’s significance. However, these bare facts are embellished by guides who include the site as part of their itineraries for tours of Devonport. As Matthew Potteiger and Jamie Purinton have highlighted, ‘stories link the sense of time, event, experience, memory and other intangibles to the more tangible aspects of place.’40 Through situating a plaque at the site taken to be that on which the murders and hanging occurred, the Devonport City Council has reinscribed the location’s colonial history, making it visible to locals and tourists alike. Philip Stone has found that travelling to sites of the seemingly macabre is an increasingly pervasive feature of contemporary visitor economies. To borrow Stone’s phraseology, the site commemorated by this bronze plaque could be termed a ‘deathscape,’ visits to which allow people to consume ‘… distant trauma within a safe and socially sanctioned tourist environment.’41 While the site of the Snow murders and Burns’ public execution elicited a complex wave of emotions that extended beyond horror at the event itself to widespread and deep-​seated fears on the part of colonists about their future in New Zealand, over time the emotions recorded by those visiting the heritage site have constricted solely to encompass reactions to the murder itself and subsequent execution of the murderer. The strong suspicions initially attached to unknown Māori perpetrators have vanished from the narrative, along with the broader context of frontier conflict within which that scenario was situated. As tourists access the plaque using a range of modalities including walking, bus tours and self-​guided Segway tours, the additional information with which they are provided about the site it commemorates varies. So, too, do their responses. Some people come across the bronze plaque by happenstance. Such was the case for Donna McTavish who, in September 2013, blogged about how she ‘discovered a crime site today which was a bit of a shock.’ She titled her post ‘Murder in Devonport,’ then recapped the story of the triple-​murder involving the Snow family as well as the many months of investigations that followed which eventually led to Burns being hanged ‘on the site of the Snows’ ruined cottage.’ Presumably McTavish sourced additional details about the murder and execution after being alerted to this element of New Zealand’s cultural heritage through coming across the plaque. She provided instructions for others who might want to walk to the location, instructing them to proceed along King Edward Parade ‘which follows the shoreline from Devonport Village towards North Head (approx 45 minutes),’ where they could find ‘a small bronze plaque marking the site of the murders and the execution.’ For McTavish, ‘it’s easy to miss [the plaque] but it’s not so easy to forget what happened here all those years ago.’42 Her reaction, while one of ‘shock,’ did not extend to any consideration of the broader implications for New Zealand society at the time of the crime.

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Heritage tourism in New Zealand 193 Journalist Michael Wayne visited Devonport in October 2016, where he took a guided bus tour and wrote about his experiences for the Australian Associated Press. Sydney-​based Wayne introduced Devonport as ‘a sleepy village across the harbour from Auckland.’ As his ‘kindly old tour guide’ told the tale of ‘the site of New Zealand’s first European execution,’ the journalist’s emotional response was muted. Wayne recalled how ‘as the rest of my tour group –​one other person –​rushes to take photos, I look out the window of the bus at the site where Burns was hanged … It’s just a tree, a plaque and the indifferent waters of Waitemata Harbour beyond.’ Playing with New Zealand’s location on the Pacific’s rim of fire, Wayne concluded his article by remarking how he could ‘sense a dark energy bubbling beneath Devonport, threatening to spew forth volcanically at any moment,’ but it was perhaps an ironic comment.43 His overall emotional response, as described, was quite muted. Visitors to the plaque who arrive by Segway as part of a self-​guided tour are primed to appreciate aspects of its significance in relation to colonial New Zealand heritage through having accessed information about it compiled by ‘Madam Segway’ of Magic Broomstick Segway Tours. On her Internet site, Madam Segway has recounted the story of Burns, the Snows and the falsely accused Duder. In her telling of the story, the temporary scaffold on which Burns was hanged has morphed into the ‘Hanging Tree.’ The site ‘is thought to be the scene of the crime,’ she tells her readers, ‘and [is] marked with one of the many historical plaques found around Devonport Village.’ The website does not contain any feedback from customers expressly about their emotional reactions to the site, but does include the claim that ‘hundreds of tourists every year can’t be wrong when they say it’s sheer fun to ride a Segway.’44 Recorded impressions from tourists visiting the bronze plaque read alongside a tour guide’s promotional material demonstrate how reactions to the site range from being restricted to shock at the mass murder and subsequent hanging that occurred there through to a blasé lack of interest in its significance to a more banal emphasis on the fun to be had through accessing it via Segway. The depth of the most marked of these reactions does not come close to rivalling in intensity the emotional responses to the Snow murders and Burns’ execution at the time of these events, which became an intrinsic part of New Zealand’s affective colonial landscape.

Disputing the heritage site Visitors to the plaque exhibit sometimes visceral reactions to witnessing a site of mass murder and a hanging. What, then, does it mean that the site marked by the plaque may not be the actual site of these events? In their telling of the tale about the Snow murders, Burns’ execution site and the erection of the plaque that commemorates these inter-​twined events, the Michael King Writers’ Centre has alluded to the fact that ‘recollections

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194  Kristyn Harman passed on through local families suggest it [the bronze plaque] may not be in exactly the right place.’45 Further details about such local concerns are recorded on the heritage inventory record form kept by North Shore City Parks about the ‘plaque recording the site of murder and execution.’ In the text box reserved for the site’s history an annotation reads: Personal comment from Dinah Holman: My mother Jocelyn, nee Mays, born at 9 Mays St in 1909, was always told by her aunt, Mary Augusta Mays, b. 1870, that the site of the execution was on high ground to the east of the Mays residence on the corner of Mays St (7 King Edward Pde). The plaque, on the other hand, is down on the promenade more or less opposite 7 King Edward Pde.46 If indeed the plaque has been located imprecisely in the general area rather than on the exact site of the events it commemorates, this implies that the affective responses of viewers are reactions to the narrative itself rather than emotional feelings somehow triggered by standing on a site of violence and death. As already mentioned, tourists have recorded reactions to this heritage site ranging from a bemused non-​engagement through to shock and horror. Perhaps this spectrum of present-​day emotion reveals more about the modalities through which the site’s heritage are being portrayed and the varying empathetic capacities of the onlookers to respond than it does about any intrinsic horror arising from the blood with which the land was soaked in the colonial period.

Conclusion While the Snow murders caused a sensation across New Zealand in the late 1840s, the landscape of affective colonialism within which this mass murder was framed was shaped by growing tensions in the relationships between Māori and Pākehā. This had broader implications for the colony. Uncertain whether the murders portended warfare in the then-​capital, Auckland, the very future of the colony and its colonial inhabitants seemed to be at stake. The emotions of fear, dread and insecurity that characterised initial Pākehā responses to the murders have faded markedly over time as memories of colonial violence have been relegated to the distant past. As a consequence, the ways in which people have both framed and responded to the Snow murders have changed considerably. In the twenty-​first century, gendered retellings of the story of the Snow murders, the wrongful accusation of Duder, the unmasking and execution of Burns and the transportation of Reardon have privileged different historical personages depending on the standpoint of those writing the narratives. These heritage stories imbue with deeper meanings the stark inscription on the bronze plaque that stands as testament to the events that transpired on

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Heritage tourism in New Zealand 195 or near the site that it marks at Devonport, a site at which these tales are often retold. The refashioned narratives demonstrate how the Snow murders have coalesced into cultural mythology, still sensationalised yet lacking the intensity evident in the emotional lexicon deployed in the 1840s reportage. Varied reactions to the heritage plaque in contemporary Devonport demonstrate that some viewers are connecting (or failing to connect) with the murders and execution in ways that dissociate these events from the broader context of frontier violence within which they took place.

Notes 1 ‘Plaques to Mark the History of Devonport’, North Shore Times, 26 August 1986, Records and Archives, Auckland City Council, New Zealand. 2 Gerard Couper to Diana Van Gaal, Memorandum dated 8 October 1986, ‘Historical Plaques’, Records and Archives, Auckland City Council, New Zealand. 3 Russ Glackin, ‘Death Comes to Devonport: A Local Tragedy from Yesteryear’, White Ensign, Winter (2009): 28. 4 ‘Plaque Recording the Site of Murder and Execution’, Heritage Inventory Form, North Shore City Parks, Records and Archives, Auckland City Council, New Zealand. 5 Terry Carson, The Axeman’s Accomplice: The True Story of Margaret Reardon and the Snow Family Murders (Auckland: Alibi Press, 2016), 9. 6 Ron Crosby, Kūpapa:  The Bitter Legacy of Māori Alliances with the Crown (New Zealand: Penguin Random House, 2015). 7 Trevor Bentley, Pakeha Maori:  The Extraordinary Story of the Europeans who Lived as Maori in Early New Zealand (Rosedale, North Shore:  Penguin Books, 1999). 8 Glackin, ‘Death Comes to Devonport’, 29–​30. 9 Kristyn Harman, ‘ “Some Dozen Raupo Whares and a Few Tents”: Remembering Raupo Houses in Colonial New Zealand’, Journal of New Zealand Studies 17 (2014): 39–​57. 10 New Zealander, 27 October 1847, 2. 11 New Zealander, 3 June 1848, 2. 12 ‘Supreme Court’, New Zealander, 3 June 1848, 2. 13 Glackin, ‘Death Comes to Devonport’, 29. As Reardon was still legally married to her former husband at the time she met Burns, she and Burns had been unable to marry. 14 ‘Supreme Court’, New Zealander, 3 June 1848, 2; Terry Carson, The Axeman’s Accomplice: The True Story of Margaret Reardon and the Snow Family Murders (Auckland: Alibi Press, 2016), 95–​7. 15 Jacqueline Van Gent, ‘Global Trading Empires’, in Early Modern Emotions: An Introduction, ed. Susan Broomhall (London: Routledge, 2016), 300. 16 New Zealander, 27 October 1847, 2. 17 Daily Southern Cross, 30 October 1847, 2. 18 Ibid. 19 Independent, 17 November 1847, 3. 20 ‘Supreme Court’, Daily Southern Cross, 4 March 1848, 3.

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196  Kristyn Harman 21 Daily Southern Cross, 11 March 1848, 2; Megan Simpson, ‘R v Margaret Reardon, Supreme Court Auckland, 1 September 1848’, Victoria University of Wellington Law Review 41 (2010): 99–​100. 22 ‘Lieutenant Snow’s Murder’, Daily Southern Cross, 11 March 1848, 2. 23 Terry Carson, The Axeman’s Accomplice: The True Story of Margaret Reardon and the Snow Family Murders (Auckland: Alibi Press, 2016), 38–​41, 53–​4. 24 ‘Supreme Court’, New Zealander, 3 June 1848, 2. 25 ‘Supreme Court’, Anglo-​Maori Warder, 6 June 1848, 2. 26 ‘A Murder by Law’, Daily Southern Cross, 17 June 1848, 2; V.A.C. Gatrell, The Hanging Tree: Execution and the English People, 1770–​1868 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), 59. 27 ‘Execution of Joseph Burns’, New Zealander, 21 June 1848, 2. 28 ‘Supreme Court’, New Zealander, 3 June 1848, 2. 29 ‘Supreme Court’, New Zealander, 2 September 1848, 2; ‘Supreme Court’, New Zealander, 6 September 1848, 3. 30 Janet Holmes, ‘Story-​ telling in New Zealand Women’s and Men’s Talk’, in Gender and Discourse, ed. Ruth Wodak (London: Sage Publications, 1997), 263. 31 ‘About Your Navy’, Royal New Zealand Navy. http://​navy.mil.nz/​ayn/​dnb/​ default.htm (accessed 22 March 2017). 32 Russ Glackin, ‘The Windsor Reserve’, White Ensign, Autumn 2008, 19. 33 Ibid., 20. 34 Michelanne Forster, the University of Auckland’s writer-​ in-​ residence at the Michael King Writers’ Centre in 2011, wrote Always My Sister, a play about Margaret Reardon and her ill-​fated relationship with Joseph Burns. The script was published by Holloway Press in 2013 and the play was performed at the Basement Theatre in Auckland in June 2014. 35 ‘The Signalmen’, The Michael King Writers’ Centre. www.writerscentre.org.nz/​ sh_​signalmen.php (accessed 22 March 2017). 36 Janice C.  Mogford, ‘Burns, Joseph’, from the Dictionary of New Zealand Biography, Te Ara the Encyclopedia of New Zealand. www.TeAra.govt.nz/​en/​ biographies/​1b51/​burnsjoseph (accessed 22 March 2017). 37 Megan Simpson, ‘R v Margaret Reardon, Supreme Court Auckland, 1 September 1848’, Victoria University of Wellington Law Review 41 (2010): 99–​106. 38 Liz Rushen, ‘Margaret Reardon (1820?–​1890)’, Edges of Empire Biographical Dictionary. www.eoe.convictwomenspress.com.au/​index.php/​biographical-​ dictionary/​22-​r/​144-​reardon-​margaret (accessed 22 March 2017). 39 Malcolm Foley and John Lennon, ‘JFK and Dark Tourism: A Fascination with Assassination’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 2:4 (1996): 198–​211. 40 Matthew Potteiger and Jamie Purinton, Landscape Narratives: Design Practices for Telling Stories (New York: Wiley, 1998), ix. 41 See in particular Philip Stone, ‘A Dark Tourism Spectrum: Towards a Typology of Death and Macabre Related Tourist Sites, Attractions and Exhibitions’, Tourism: An Interdisciplinary International Journal 54:2 (2006): 145–​60; Philip Stone, ‘Dark Tourism Scholarship: A Critical Review’, International Journal of Culture, Tourism and Hospitality Research 7:3 (2013): 307. 42 Donna McTavish, ‘Murder in Devonport’. https://​thelocaltouristnz.com/​2013/​ 09/​14/​murder-​in-​devonport/​ (accessed 22 March 2017).

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Heritage tourism in New Zealand 197 43 Michael Wayne, ‘Dark History Bubbling in Devonport’, 25 October 2016. https://​au.news.yahoo.com/​a/​32994132/​dark-​history-​bubbling-​in-​devonport/​ #page1 (accessed 22 March 2017). 44 Madam Segway, ‘Enjoy Stunning Auckland Views from the Summit of Devonport’s Mt. Victoria’, Magic Segway Broomstick Tours. www.newzealand. com/​au/​article/​enjoy-​stunning-​auckland-​views-​from-​the-​summit-​of-​devonports-​ mt-​victoria/​ (accessed 22 March 2017). 45 ‘The Signalmen’, The Michael King Writers’ Centre. 46 ‘Plaque Recording the Site of Murder and Execution’, Heritage Inventory Form, North Shore City Parks, Records and Archives, Auckland City Council, New Zealand.

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12  Convict bloodlines Crime, intergenerational legacies and convict heritage Hamish Maxwell-​Stewart

It is Boxing Day and the cricket is on. England’s Barmy Army is in full voice. To the tune of ‘Yellow Submarine’ they taunt the Australian crowd –​but the refrain ‘you all live in a convict colony’ does not cut it any longer.1 If there are things that make Australians cringe, convict descent is no longer one of them. The Australian crowd’s counter-​attack has more punch: ‘you sent us to a sunny paradise.’ A lot has changed since the 1850s. As David Roberts points out, views about convicts and their impact on Australian society have rarely been harmonious. While some have argued that the convicts were critical in shaping the cultural identity of Australians, others have downplayed the impact of convict descent. In 1918 the statistician T.A. Coghlan sought to reassure those who drew the ‘hasty conclusion’ that the stain of criminality had permeated the Australian population. He calculated that by 1871 convicts and their descendants accounted for just 1.5 per cent of Australians, so thoroughly had the ‘original elements’ been ‘overwhelmed by the inflow following the gold discoveries.’2 Many others followed suit, arguing that post-​gold rush migration had cleansed Australia of the original sin brought to its shores by a smaller and statistically insignificant bonded population. It was as though the first 64  years of settler colonial history could be set aside as a false start and that the real exercise of nation building only commenced with the wave of free migrants who rushed to Victoria following the 1851 discovery of alluvial gold to plunder the riches of the earth, rather than being sent to Australia for plundering the pockets of others. The desire to downplay convict origins was heightened by the nineteenth-​ century tendency to see crime as a form of infection. Convicts were regarded as a species of malignant disorder that could spread criminal vice to others –​ a process that could include intergenerational transmission. A Times article, widely circulated in Australia, put it thus: while the colonists lived in terror of the arrival of ships infected with scarlatina and smallpox, ‘they are no less nervous of the contagion of crime.’3 Or as a Tasmanian argued, the British Government appeared to think that a ‘virus, so dangerous and unlawful at home’ would be somehow ‘deprived of its malignity’ when exported to Australia.4 The Ballarat Star was even more explicit. Transportation would:

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Convict bloodlines 199 spread contagion amongst our hearts and homes, as a plague spot it will infect our system. From it Australia will become tainted with a foul and loathsome disease that will sap the foundation of its constitution, and spread a moral leprosy over the country hideous to behold, until we shall become a thing of scorn and shame even to the mother country, a bye-​word among civilised nations.5 The notion that crime was contagious attracted greater intellectual credibility as the century progressed. The Italian positivist Cesare Lombroso and other criminal anthropologists believed that persistent offenders were primitive throwbacks to an early stage of human evolution. He claimed, for example, that in the Australian penal colonies and French Guyana, convicts had mixed ‘easily’ with indigenous peoples, ‘adopting their customs, including cannibalism.’6 Drawing inspiration from social Darwinists they argued that crime needed to be treated by isolating offenders. Otherwise, as the Bathurst Free Press and Mining Journal reported, the outcome would be the ‘transmission from parents to progeny of depraved habits and felonious proclivities.’7 Bad blood was a serious issue. There were always voices of dissent, however. In the same year that Coghlan’s Labour and Industry appeared, Mary Gilmore’s Old Botany Bay was published –​a poem that attacked those who denied the role that penal transportation had played in shaping the newly formed Australian Commonwealth.8 Gilmore was not alone in celebrating the achievements of the men, women and children sent in disgrace to ‘split the rock’ and ‘fell the tree.’ Three years later George Arnold Wood, the Challis Professor of History at the University of Sydney, addressed the Royal Australian Historical Society. Wood was also interested in the legacy of transportation. He argued that if you viewed the Botany Bay venture as a social experiment, the Australian contribution to the British imperial war effort was proof that transportation had wrought little by way of social evil. Wood’s view of history was distinctly Whiggish. As R.M. Crawford put it, he ‘believed in the capacity of ordinary men and women in favourable circumstances to grow in stature, and to free that capacity was his test of progress.’9 The lowly origins of the Commonwealth’s convict founders made the advance of Australia all the more remarkable. To argue that the stain of the nation’s past had been obliterated by the post-​gold rush influx was to miss the point. It was as though the history of the nation had been cut off at its knees with a resultant tendency to underestimate the progress that settler Australia had made. This was particularly true of the contribution of the colonially born, who were reduced to a minority of the population by the sheer scale of those lured to the Antipodes by the attraction of gold. This was convenient in other ways too. Arguing that transportation had been a largely ineffectual process minimised the role that forced labour had played in the invasion of the continent. If convicts had been largely workshy career criminals who had contributed little to the economy and had been

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200  Hamish Maxwell-Stewart largely held in secure locations like penal colonies, their impact on the indigenous population could be argued to be slight. As Earnest Renan once famously put it: ‘Getting its history wrong is part of being a nation.’10 Yet, when it comes to invented pasts there is often a truth embedded deep within that wrong. In Australia’s case the idea of bad convict blood powered labour exploitation. All unfree labour systems are underpinned by essentialised views of the unfree –​necessary in order to justify the levels of coercion required to coax labour out of unwilling bodies. In Australia’s case that justification lay in the moral failings of convicts. It was necessary for convicts to be indolent, ungodly recidivists –​in short everything that a respectable citizen was not –​in order for the colonial administration to justify each stroke of the lash applied to a convict’s back.11 In this sense ‘convictism,’ an Australian version of plantation racism, underpinned the convict system as solidly as the bricks and mortar used to construct the colonial architecture of confinement. Moral failings disguised the manner in which levels of punishment oscillated in step with fluctuations in the economy. Most convict labour was assigned or loaned out to private settlers. It has only been in recent years with the digitisation of the convict archive that the extent to which punishments rose and fell in line with the costs of maintaining an assigned convict have become apparent. As the price of clothing and food rose, so did the probability that a convict would be brought before a magistrates’ bench charged with an offence. Moreover, the chances that the court would sentence the offender to serve their punishment in a government gang also increased. In effect the magistrates’ bench operated as a firing mechanism, redirecting bonded labour back to the government when it suited the private sector to do so. It goes without saying that the bulk of punishment fell on those convicts who possessed skills for which there was no great colonial demand.12 There is a danger than an emphasis on built heritage has helped to perpetuate this particular convict legacy. It is has become popular to refer to convict Australia as a prison without walls. At any single point the bulk of convict labour worked in the private sector and was thus not hemmed in by institutional walls. This did not apply, however, to those undergoing punishment who were contained in barracks, sometimes ringed by stout stockades, or incarcerated in houses of correction or penal stations. It should come as no surprise that the majority of convict sites placed on the UNESCO World Heritage Register in 2010 are sites of punishment.13 As the architecture of confinement did not represent a cross-​section of Australian convict experience, any attempt at physical representation of the surviving architecture of penal transportation will necessarily be skewed towards the more coercive end of the convict system. The taint of ‘convictism’ is thus hardwired into the physical legacy of penal transportation. The surviving edifice of Australia’s convict past was designed to reinforce a point –​restraint and punishment were required to

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Convict bloodlines 201 chastise and control a recalcitrant, truculent population. The message has perhaps unfortunately been exacerbated by heritage marketing. The public are far more likely to be drawn to a place like Port Arthur –​a former penal station –​than a place of labour that was not characterised by the use of the lash, dark cell and leg irons. As Babette Smith put it, there is a disjuncture between the reconstructed experiences of those convicts whose lives have been pieced together by descendants and the dominant version of the past.14 Penal stations played an important role in fashioning convict labour; they provided stark warning to all convicts of the consequences of not bending their back for master and state, but only a minority of convicts were ever shipped to these remote sites. Furthermore, those that experienced life in a penal station were atypical. They were less skilled, accumulated more court appearances over their life course and were, perhaps not surprisingly, less likely to form families post-​ release. In this sense convict blood lines hived off from the built legacy of the transportation era long ago.15 There were certainly signs in the nineteenth century that in terms of biological heritage, the convict colony evolved in ways that few had anticipated. Far from undermining the frame of the nation, the off-​spring of convicts were strikingly different to their parents in terms of at least one characteristic –​their height.

Height, history and heritage When George Arnold Wood referred to the capacity of former convicts to grow in stature he alluded to growth in a social sense. He might just as well, however, have used height as a physical calibration of success. Earlier in the century the difference in height between Britons and troops from the colonies had shocked many in the British military establishment. In terms of collective flesh and bone, the recruits sent from the imperial centre to fight in the South African War of 1899–​1902 were shorter than those recruited in the colonies. This was partly because colonial enlistment standards were set at a higher mark. Australians who volunteered to serve in South Africa, for example, were expected to meet a minimum height standard of 5 feet 6 inches as well as having to prove that they could ride and were proficient shots.16 Nevertheless, it was worrying that at 5 feet 5.4 inches the average height of British military recruits in 1900 was below the minimum height set by the Commonwealth Government of Australia.17 Worse still, according to one military authority, only two out of every five British volunteers were ‘fit enough to become effective soldiers.’18 If some Australians feared that the stock of the nation had been corrupted from the outset by the taint of convict blood, Britons became increasingly obsessed about the ill effects that industrialisation had wrought on the frame of the nation. The British physician G. Archdall Reid, for example, warned the Sociological Society in 1904 that there was mounting evidence that the detrimental effects of slum life could be transmitted from one generation

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202  Hamish Maxwell-Stewart to another.19 In an era when eugenic thought was rife the notion that the ill effects of poverty and vice could be passed from parent to child was a serious metropolitan and colonial concern. While at least 80 per cent of adult height is genetic, the inherited propensity to be short or tall is equally distributed across populations. In other words, working-​class Britons were not stunted because they had inherited bad blood from their parents. A chart of collective heights of fully grown individuals of the same sex should be shaped like a bell –​a characteristic known as a Gaussian curve after the German mathematician Johann Gaus who first noticed the phenomenon. In any given population the number of those who are disproportionately short should be same as the number who are disproportionately tall since, if you fold a Gaussian curve in the middle, the left-​hand side will exactly mirror the right. Reid and his ilk were not hallucinating, however. There is a marked tendency for the working class to be shorter than the middle class. In nineteenth-​ and early twentieth-​century Britain it was also the case that those born in urban areas were shorter than those brought up in the country. There was a geographical and social height gradient because the environmental conditions encountered in utero and during early childhood can also have a bearing on adult stature. In other words, an individual will only reach their potential biological height if the conditions under which they are nurtured are optimal. For such conditions to be met the diet they receive needs to be nutritionally adequate, or at least sufficient to overcome any environmental insults encountered. Childhood diseases (particularly diarrhoeal diseases), foetal alcohol syndrome, the use of opiate-​based medicines, lack of exposure to sunshine and stress can all stunt growth, knocking an individual off their genetically programmed growth trajectory. In this sense we are what we eat  –​with the important proviso that the conditions that we (and our pregnant mothers) encounter also help to make us. Technically the environmental determinants of height can be summarised as energy (in the form of calories) minus the cumulative effects of disease and other insults. Since the effect of genes that determine that some will be short and others tall tend to cancel each other out across a population, fluctuations in mean adult height between generations can be used as a measure of collective foetal and childhood experience. Rather than a measure of bad blood (the legacy of a criminal or idle past), adult height can thus be used to tell a story about childhood conditions –​or, as economic historians would put it, a population’s nutritional status. Plates emptied by slim pay packets, bacteria passed on a spoon handle from one family member to another, patent medicines used to stupefy crying children and the smog which shut the sun out in some industrial cities all stunted children. By contrast, others brought up in more benign conditions were literally given a head start in life. There is some evidence that the gap in height between Australian and British volunteers that had so startled South African War recruiters was not

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Convict bloodlines 203 a recent phenomenon. Visitors to Australia in the first decades of the nineteenth century were struck by the heights of the children born to convicts. Indeed, so tall were the offspring of those who had ‘left their country for their country’s good’ that they were called ‘cornstalks’ –​a reference to their stature, slender build and sun-​bleached hair. As one commentator put it in 1827:  ‘All our six-​feet high native boys and girls have sprung from these “reprobates”.’20 Even in the early nineteenth century it seemed curious to many that thieves lagged to the Antipodes could produce such fine sons and daughters. Not only were they tall compared to their parents, but they looked athletic in comparison to free British migrants. As one press report had it, ‘a native “cornstalk” ’ could take on ‘any foreign sapling.’21 Unfortunately, few of the children born to convict parents prior to 1830 were measured. It is thus impossible to put such anecdotal observations to the test. Yet, while we know little about the heights of the first generation of colonial born, their parents were described in remarkable detail. From the end of the Napoleonic Wars the colonial state recorded the colour of the eyes, the place of birth, the nature of their former brushes with the law, the scars and tattoos that marked their skin and their heights to the nearest quarter-​ inch. A detailed word picture of every disembarked convict was committed to the thick rag-​paper pages of the voluminous registers maintained as a safeguard against future attempts to abscond.22 The descriptions of convicts who sought to slip away from their allotted places of work were routinely published in colonial newspapers. Those who stowed away on departing vessels, or piratically seized craft in an attempt to reach more distant shores, had their descriptions circulated on an imperial scale. The Hue and Cry, a London publication first issued under the name the Quarterly Pursuit by the Bow Street Police Office in 1772, often carried descriptions of the Australian penal colonies’ lost property. By this means their likeness could be circulated to mayors and principal officers of every city and town in the British Isles, justices of the peace, keepers of jails and houses of correction, the Metropolitan Police, the War Office, Horse Patrol, police offices as well as the commanding officers of military regiments stationed at home and overseas. In the second half of the century the Australian colonies extended the level of state surveillance to cover sections of the colonial population other than those who had arrived as convicts. In order to do so they started to produce their own versions of The Hue and Cry in the form of a series of colonial police gazettes. While the sheer scale of the nineteenth-​century British and Irish population prohibited mass surveillance, colonial populations were smaller, allowing for adaptations of the metropolitan model. The Hue and Cry offered notices of reward and requests for information about crimes that had been committed, but did not attempt to circulate details of the great mass of individuals who were known to the police. The colonial police gazettes, by contrast, published descriptions of all prisoners discharged from custody.

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204  Hamish Maxwell-Stewart The first Australian police gazette was issued in Victoria –​it appeared in 1853 in response to rising post-​gold rush crime levels and fears about the uncontrolled influx of serving and former convicts from Van Diemen’s Land, as Tasmania was known before the name was changed in 1856 in an attempt to distance the island’s inhabitants from the stigma of a penal past. Issues of the Victorian Police Gazette were thus regularly circulated across the Bass Strait. Around 10,000 former Tasmanian convicts and Tasmanian-​born are named in its pages in the years to 1893.23 The first issue of the Tasmanian Police Gazette appeared in 1861. Its publication may have been motivated by concerns about the recidivist tendencies of an ageing former convict population. It is also possible, however, that a new system of record keeping was required to keep track of the children and grandchildren of convicts about whom much less was known. Since these sections of the population had never been subject to the levels of scrutiny that had been applied to the transported, a new bureaucratic infrastructure was required to bring them into state view. Tabulated returns of discharged prisoners were first printed in the Tasmanian Police Gazette in 1865. Each table included the prisoner’s name, age, place of birth, ship of arrival, height, hair colour, distinguishing physical features, date of trial, offence, length of sentence and place and date of discharge. Recorded ages range from 5 to 103 and the returns include those released after serving sentences that vary in length from life to one hour. There are also a small number of entries for individuals who were admonished and discharged or bound over to pay a bond, and therefore appear not to have received a formal custodial sentence. However, these represent under one per cent of all cases. A number of others are recorded as being fined, or provided with the choice of paying a fine or serving a custodial sentence. Those who suffered the ignominy of having their details circulated from one police office to another were tried at all levels of the court system. As the range of sentences might suggest, the offences for which they were arraigned varied from the petty (vagrancy, stealing fruit, trespass etc.) to murder. In the years from 1865 to 1924 a total of 39,109 measurements of former prisoners were printed in this periodical, including 12,949 for former convicts 5,973 for prisoners who had been born in Britain and Ireland but had migrated to the colony and 19,695 for the colonially born. This remarkable record series provides an opportunity to explore the history of an Australian colony at household level. Since height reflects childhood circumstance, the collective height of Tasmanian-​born prisoners can be used as an index of the ability of their parents to feed them and protect them from other insults that might otherwise have stunted their growth. As the birth years of the colonially born prisoners recorded in the Tasmanian Police Gazette range from the 1830s to [CE: Federation] in 1901 it is possible to do this over a substantial slice of the nineteenth century, including the last two decades of the convict era. This provides an opportunity to look

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Convict bloodlines 205 in detail at the impact that convict transportation, the depression of the 1840s, the Victorian gold rush and Tasmania’s own late nineteenth-​century mineral boom had on working-​class family life. Tasmanian prisoners born in the 1830s and 1840s were not tall by colonial standards. They were shorter, for example, than New Zealand-​born prisoners incarcerated in that colony’s penal institutions.24 Although they were taller than the convicts transported in the first half of the nineteenth century to the Australian penal colonies from the British Isles, they were not the strapping lads and lasses that earlier commentators had claimed were typical of the Australian-​born youth. Indeed, the data from the Tasmanian Police Gazette suggests that the ‘currency,’ as the colonially born were often called, were getting shorter rather than taller. This fits with the more pessimistic accounts of the effects of convict transportation on working-​class living conditions. While some authors have claimed that transportation led to the creation of a remarkably egalitarian society, there is much evidence that it was an exploitative system.25 This was not just because it forcibly extracted labour from the bodies of the convicts themselves, but because it impacted on free workers too. As the number of convicts who were available to work for Australian settlers increased, so free wages declined. It is worth reminding ourselves that transportation benefited colonial employers, both because it supplied them with unfree labour and because competition with convicts weakened the bargaining power of free workers.26 This is the main reason why transportation was unpopular with colonial artisans, although many had themselves once worn the ‘yellow jacket.’ Just as had been the case in the 13 colonies in the run-​up to the American Revolution of 1775, anti-​ transportation had powerful working-​class support.27 It is likely that there were distinct advantages to be being born in Van Diemen’s Land compared to industrialising Britain. Meat was in plentiful supply and there is evidence that small colonial population levels and the long sea journey from Britain protected the Australian-​born from insults common in the Old World. Infectious disorders tended to burn out on the long voyage to the Antipodes simply because they ran out of fresh hosts to infect over the course of a voyage, which in the first half of the nineteenth century lasted an average of just under four months.28 Competition with convict labour eroded these advantages. The prison data suggests that the heights of Tasmanians born in the 1830s were on the slide as declining wages gave the lie to the notion that Australia was a working man’s paradise. The decline in height reached its nadir with the 1840s depression  –​a period in which demand for labour was so weak that the government had difficulty in persuading settlers to hire convicts at minimal rates, let alone employ free workers on full wages. High levels of unemployment and under-​ employment impacted on colonial growth trajectories. As the speakers at meetings of ‘free mechanics and operatives’ called in Hobart and Launceston

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206  Hamish Maxwell-Stewart stressed, these were hard times ‘for a man who has a family to support by his labour.’ Free workers were urged to take action so that ‘our children will not have to exclaim against us at a future day.’29 Conditions, and as a result heights, recovered after 1851 when news that alluvial gold had been discovered in Victoria spread. It was now employers, the same individuals who had been described by distressed mechanics in the 1840s as ‘bloodsuckers,’ who felt the pinch.30 The mass exodus to the diggings resulted in rewards in the form of higher wages for those amongst the working class who resisted the lure of gold and stayed in Tasmania. The height of Tasmanian-​born prisoners continued to recover until the late 1880s, by which time they had caught up with their New Zealand-​born counterparts31 If competition from convict labour stunted child development in the 1830s and 1840s, the damage was largely undone in the decades following the 1853 decision to cease sending convicts to the colony from the British Isles. What is perhaps surprising about this post-​transportation recovery is that Tasmania had a reputation in the second half of the nineteenth century as a quiet colonial backwater.

Height and the ex-​convict household It is possible to explore these findings in greater depth by linking the stature returns for discharged prisoners to other classes of records. Tasmania is rich in records partly because of its convict legacy, but also because the colony was run for a time by a man who was fascinated by the collecting of all things from botanical specimens to administrative data. John Franklin, governor from 1836 to 1843, instituted a system of civil registration of births, deaths and marriages in 1838, one year after the introduction of similar measures in England and Wales.32 These birth registers provide information on parents, including the occupation of fathers. Linking prison discharges to birth records provides a means of identifying the extent to which men with different skills were able to put bread, meat and other victuals on the family table and protect their children from the effects of disease and other environmental insults. While the place of birth entered in the Police Gazette rarely provided more information than ‘Tasmania,’ the birth registers give more precise data about the locale in which each prisoner was born. Even in 1891, Hobart only had a population of 24,905.33 While Tasmanians are unlikely to have experienced the kind of conditions that appalled Rowntree and other British social reformers who examined the state of Britain’s industrialising cities, birth registration data provides the opportunity to test the extent to which the higher density of occupation in the colony’s urban areas compromised the growth of children. It is possible to go one stage further than this. Some of the parents identified through linkage to birth registers can also be found in the list of couples

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Convict bloodlines 207 who had to apply for permission from the state to marry as one or both were still serving convicts.34 This is not an exhaustive method of identifying convict parents. Many amongst the transported delayed marriage until after they had served their sentence and therefore escaped the need to apply for permission. Others never registered their unions, or for that matter the birth of their children, despite the state requirement to do so. This applied in particular to Roman Catholics, a high percentage of whom were former convicts. Finally, some couples escaped state recording through cohabitation. Nevertheless, this approach provides an opportunity to examine the extent to which family circumstance, including the ‘stain’ of having convict parents, impacted upon the welfare of those colonial children who were subsequently incarcerated and as a result had the details of their height and other distinguishing characteristics printed in the Tasmanian Police Gazette. Analysis of the 6091 records that could be linked to registered births revealed that prisoners born in Hobart and Launceston were statistically likely to be shorter than those whose births were registered in rural areas. The tallest were born in the southern midlands and the northwest of the colony. Despite their relatively small size, Hobart and Launceston were comparatively unhealthy places to raise children –​presumably because higher residential densities exposed families to increased risk of infection. It is also possible that urban diets were relatively deficient in protein. This might also explain why living in southern and northwestern rural areas was beneficial. A preponderance of hilly wooded country that was difficult to convert into agricultural land ensured the survival of a ‘commons’ where rural families could supplement diets through the hunting and trapping of possum and wallabies –​an option not available to their urban counterparts. Having a father whose occupation was recorded as labourer was not associated with any particular disadvantage. This is perhaps surprising but might be explained by rural urban effects. It is possible that many who recorded their occupation as labourer were farm workers. Children of artisans tended to be shorter than the children of labourers and this was particularly true of those whose fathers worked in the shoemaking industry. The petitions adopted by the anti-​ transportation movement were not circulated to churches for the collection of signatures, but to the shops of boot-​and shoemakers, plumbers, tanners, turners and cabinetmakers.35 An 1849 list of 430 colonists who had signed a pledge promising not to hire convict labour was dominated by artisans, including 22 boot-​and shoemakers.36 The latter were particularly hard hit by the emphasis that penal establishments like those at Port Arthur and Point Puer placed on training convicts in shoemaking and its allied trades, with the result that for years afterwards the Tasmanian labour market was oversupplied with this particular skill. Reduced employment opportunities appear to be reflected in the reduced height of the children raised in households headed by shoemakers.

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208  Hamish Maxwell-Stewart There is no indication, however, that these ill-​effects were disproportionately felt by the offspring of convicts. Having convict parents was not associated with being short. There is thus little evidence that the children of convicts were disadvantaged by the sentence that their mothers and or fathers had once served. On the contrary, those of convict descent were taller than those for whom the social status of their parents was not known –​a result which was statistically significant. For all the paranoia exhibited by nineteenth-​century Australians about the convict ‘stain’ there is no evidence that former convicts were less able to place food in the mouths of their children or protect them from the risk of exposure to disease. There is certainly nothing to suggest that former convicts made bad parents, as was alleged by some. The children of convicts were not more likely to have a record of multiple arrests. In other words, despite the fears of colonists, there is no evidence that a proclivity to transgress the law was a trait that was passed either by blood, or other socio-​economic factors, from one generation to another. Much of this supports Braithwaite’s take on transportation. A criminologist by training, he noted that Tasmania does not appear to have been negatively impacted upon by transportation. Despite being the colony that received the highest proportion of convicts compared to free arrivals, it had the lowest crime rate by the time of federation. He argued that this was because transportation was a system that integrated convicts into the labour force through its close partnership with the private sector. In contrast to penitentiaries, which sought to isolate and as a consequence stigmatise prisoners, transportation prepared those lagged to Britain’s penal colonies for a life after sentence.37 This study supports some of these conclusions providing powerful evidence that former convicts were able to form stable family units and raise children who were not disadvantaged by the stigma of transportation. It does, however, also provide an important caveat. If the use of prison labour helped to prepare convicts for a life after sentence, it created wider hardship amongst the working class as a whole. In this sense those who arrived free in Australia should, ironically, be numbered amongst the victims of transportation. Understanding this helps to explain why the moral rhetoric of anti-​ transportation campaigners like the Reverend John West found fertile ground amongst the urban working class. In overall terms, however, George Arnold Wood was right. The children and grandchildren of convicts did grow in stature –​both in a physical and social sense. An interesting feature of the Tasmanian Police Gazette was that Tasmanian-​born prisoners were consistently taller than those men and women that they shared a cell with who had been born in Britain and Ireland and subsequently migrated to Australia. Tasmania may have been a colonial backwater in the nineteenth century, but the height evidence suggests that it was better place to raise a child than the British Isles. Transportation appears to have thus conferred distinct benefits to the children and grandchildren of

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Convict bloodlines 209 those who were lagged to Tasmania’s shores in disgrace. This might also explain why so many were eager to forget their familial convict origins. That the descendants of convicts were upwardly mobile provided them with an incentive to engage in an act of collective amnesia in a manner which might have been less comprehensive if their own lives had more closely mirrored the trials and tribulations experienced by their parents.

Blood, stone and land The response of the Australian crowd to the chants of the Barmy Army is not entirely inappropriate. While nineteenth-​century Australia was not an unproblematic paradise for workers, it offered opportunities for migrants, including the convicts who were forced to locate to that far corner of the world. Yet, the manner in which convict labour exploitation was justified has served to obscure many of these legacies. This includes the extent to which penal transportation provided the necessary labour to colonise a continent. Without the work performed by convicts, the land forcibly taken from indigenous Australians could not have been made to turn a profit. Indeed, it is unlikely that the lure of cheap land alone would have been enough to catalyse the process of colonisation. It was the additional supply of cheap labour that made relocation to Australia a tempting prospect for would-​be settler colonists.38 In order to justify the substitution of rations and clothing for wages, convicts were depicted as lazy, work-​shy and indolent career criminals. Many masters argued that it cost them to maintain their prisoner labour force  –​although the demand for convict labour stands testimony to the extent to which the opposite was true. While convict Australia has been called a prison without walls, it was not really a prison at all. At any single moment the majority of convicts were deployed working for private masters. Those who remained under the control of government consisted mostly of prisoners undergoing punishment labour in a road gang, female factory or penal station. While these sites were unrepresentative of the places in which convicts were worked as a whole, they account for the majority of heritage sites linked with the convict experience. Such places of punishment, for example, dominate the sites placed on the World Heritage list in 2010.39 The official purpose of the penal station and female factory was to act as a backstop –​a place where the very worst of the worst might be contained. Their unstated purpose was to underpin production in the private sector. While only a minority of convicts were ever sent to a penal station, all knew that a stint in a penal station gang might be the consequence of not doing their master or mistresses’ bidding. In practice, many convicts were sent to such locations not because they had broken the criminal law, but because they had contested the rules and regulations that governed the colonial deployment of convict labour. The

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210  Hamish Maxwell-Stewart single most common reason for being sent to a penal station, for example, was absconding –​an offence for which no free person could be tried. Nor were the inmates of penal stations and female factories punished according to the severity of the sentence passed upon them by a colonial court. Analysis of punishments meted out within the confines of penal stations reveal that, like the system as a whole, they did not deal a ‘just measure of pain.’ It was those with the least useful skills who bore the brunt of punishment.40 It is often difficult, however, to insert these more complex messages into site interpretation plans and guide scripts. By contrast, the line that penal stations and female factories were required to deal with the scum of empire is a relatively simple message to deliver. It is thus possible to get blood from a stone, in the sense that the visitor may walk away from former sites of punishment with the idea that the convicts sent to such places were typical of all convicts, and that a firm hand was required to keep them in place. The ideology of the convict system, one based on the notion of bad blood, might thus be perpetuated by an emphasis on the physical remnants of the past. As this chapter has shown, the actual legacy of the convict era was far more complex. There is surprisingly little evidence that penal transportation was associated with intergenerational disadvantage. Indeed, on average the children of convicts grew up taller in Australia than they would have done if their parents had not been transported. While early colonial Australia may not have been a ‘sunny paradise,’ it was not impacted upon by the processes of industrialisation and rapid urban expansion responsible for stunting many working-​class British and Irish children. In Australia, protein also contributed a greater percentage of working-​class diets and colonial families benefited from a comparatively benign disease environment. This is not to say that convict transportation was a ‘nuns’ picnic.’ The dislocation from family, conviction, long sea voyage and punishments under sentence are all likely to have had psychological impacts. We know from the tattooed memorials to lost family that many convicts caused to be etched into their skin that such dislocations were the source of emotional trauma.41 Other convicts provided graphic accounts of the effects of being flogged or placed in solitary confinement.42 These were not trivial things but, contrary to the predictions of the anti-​transportationists, the ‘stain’ of transportation was not an indelible mark.43 There is surprisingly little evidence that the descendants of convicts were disadvantaged by the verdicts passed upon their parents by British and Irish courts. There is of course a danger that this story –​retrieved as a result of transcribing and linking thousands of archival records  –​will be drowned out by counter-​messages. While heritage sites may not speak for themselves, they can be powerful transmitters of ideas. This has caused concern for Australian historians for decades now.44 There is a distinct danger that the

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Convict bloodlines 211 desire to articulate the official purpose for the construction and maintenance of a place of power like a penal station will shut the cell door on nineteenth-​ century convicts more firmly than was ever possible in practice.45 In a digital age there may be ways of mitigating such effects. It is an historical accident that record groups have been split away from the sites that they once helped to manage. The digitisation of the archive provides opportunities to repopulate sites with digital reconstructions of the movements of convicts and administrators and fluctuations in punishment rates over time. Such an approach might help visitors to explore the inner workings of the convict system in ways that enabled them to see how the interactions between blood, stone and land played out in colonial Australia in practice.

Notes 1 Fan Chants. www.fanchants.com/​football-​songs/​england-​cricket-​team-​chants/​ convict-​colony/​ (accessed 29 July 2017). 2 T.A. Coghlan, Labour and Industry: From the First Settlement in 1788 to the Establishment of the Commonwealth in 1901 (Melbourne:  Macmillan, 1969, Vol. 1), 562. 3 The Argus, 23 January 1864. 4 The Courier, 7 April 1853. 5 The Star, 17 October 1857. 6 Cesare Lombroso, Criminal Man (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006), 223. 7 Bathurst Free Press and Mining Journal, 28 September 1889. 8 R.D. Fitzgerald (ed.), Mary Gilmore (Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1963), 9. 9 R.M. Crawford, ‘Wood, George Arnold (1865–​1928)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography (National Centre of Biography, Australian National University). http://​ adb.anu.edu.au/​biography/​wood-​george-​arnold-​9170/​text16193 (accessed 29 July 2017), published first in hardcopy (1990). 10 Earnest Renan, Qu’est que c’est une Nation 7–​8, as quoted by E.J. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780:  Programme, Myth, Reality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 12. 11 Hamish Maxwell-​ Stewart, ‘ “Like Poor Galley Slaves”:  Slavery and Convict Transportation’, Legacies of Slavery: Comparative Perspectives, ed. Marie Suzette Fernandes Dias (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2007), 48–​61. 12 Hamish Maxwell-​Stewart, ‘Convict Labour Extraction and Transportation from Britain and Ireland 1615–​1870’, Convict Labour: A Global Regime, ed. C. de Vito and A. Lichtenstein, (Leiden: Brill, Studies in Global Social History, 2015), 182–​93. 13 Australian Convict Sites. www.environment.gov.au/​heritage/​places/​world/​ convict-​sites (accessed 29 July 2017). 14 Babette Smith, Australia’s Birthstain:  The Startling Legacy of the Convict Era (Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2008), 1–​2. 15 Lydia Nicholson and Hamish Maxwell-​Stewart, ‘The Past, Family History and Convict Tourism’, The Palgrave Handbook on Prison Tourism, ed. J.  Wilson, S. Hodgkinson, J. Piché and K. Walby (London: Palgrave, 2016), 711–​32.

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212  Hamish Maxwell-Stewart 16 Greg Whitwell, Christine de Souza and Stephen Nicholas, ‘Height, Health, and Economic Growth in Australia, 1860–​1940’, Height and Welfare during Industrialisation, ed. R.H. Steckel and R. Floud (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 414. 17 George F. Shee, ‘The Deterioration in National Physique’, Nineteenth Century 53 (1903): 798–​801. 18 Roderick Floud, Kenneth Wachter and Annabel Gregory, Height, Health and History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 306. 19 Richard Soloway, ‘Counting the Degenerates: The Statistics of Race Deterioration in Edwardian England’, Journal of Contemporary History 17:1 (1982): 144. 20 John Moloy, The Native–​ Born:  The First White Australians (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 2000), 23. 21 Australian, 7 January 1831. 22 Hamish Maxwell-​Stewart, Closing Hell’s Gates: The Death of a Convict Station (Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2008), 81–​2. 23 Helen Doxford Harris, Index of Tasmanians in the Victorian Police Gazette 1853–​1893 (Forrest Hill: Harriland Press, 1997). 24 Kris Inwood, Les Oxley and Evan Roberts, ‘Physical Stature in Nineteenth-​ Century New Zealand:  A Preliminary Interpretation’, Australian Economic History Review 50:3 (2010): 263–​83. 25 Smith, Australia’s Birthstain,  336–​7. 26 Stephen Nicholas, ‘The Convict Labour Market’, Convict Workers: Reinterpreting Australia’s Past, ed. S. Nicholas (Cambridge: Cambridge, University Press, 1988), 111–​26. 27 Hamish Maxwell-​Stewart, ‘Convict Transportation from Britain and Ireland 1615–​1870’, History Compass 8 (2010): 6–​7. 28 Robin Haines, Doctors at Sea:  Emigrant Voyages to Colonial Australia (Houndmills: Palgrave, 2005), 41 29 The Cornwall Chronicle, 4 September 1844. 30 Ibid. 31 Inwood et al., ‘Physical Stature’. 32 Rebecca Kippen, ‘ “A Pestilence Stalks Abroad”: Familial Clustering of Deaths during the Tasmanian Scarlet Fever, Measles and Influenza Epidemics of 1852–​ 1854’, Genus, Journal of Population Studies LXVII:2 (2011): 58. 33 Registrar-​General’s Department, Census of the Colony of Tasmania, 1891 (Hobart: William Grahame, 1893). 34 Register of Convict Applications for Permission to Marry 1829–​1857, Tasmanian Archives and Heritage Office, Con 45 and Con 52. 35 Launceston Examiner, 5 May 1849. 36 The Cornwall Chronicle, 17 February 1849. 37 John Braithwaite, ‘Crime in the Convict Republic’, The Modern Law Review 64 (2001): 16–​17;  19–​21. 38 Nicholas, ‘The Convict Labour Market’. 39 Department of the Environment, Water, Heritage and the Arts, Australian Convict Sites World Heritage Nomination (Canberra:  Commonwealth Government of Australia, 2008). 40 Hamish Maxwell-​Stewart, ‘The Rise and Fall of John Longworth:  Work and Punishment in Early Port Arthur’, Tasmanian Historical Studies 6:2 (1999): 104–​7.

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Convict bloodlines 213 41 Hamish Maxwell-​ Stewart and James Bradley, ‘  “Behold the Man”:  Power, Observation and the Tattooed Convict’, Australian Studies 12 (1997): 71–​97. 42 See, for example, the discussion on flogging in Raymond Evans and William Thorpe, ‘Power, Punishment and Penal Labour: Convict Workers and Moreton Bay’, Australian Historical Studies 22:89 (1992): 90–​111. 43 Henry Reynolds, ‘ “That Hated Stain”:  The Aftermath of Transportation in Tasmania’, Australian Historical Studies 10 (1969): 19–​31. 44 Kay Daniels, ‘Cults of Nature, Cults of History’, Island Magazine, 16 (1983): 6; and Richard Flanagan, ‘Crowbar History:  Panel Games and Port Arthur’, Australian Society 9:8 (1990):  35–​ 7. See also Grace Karskens, ‘Engaging Artefacts: Urban Archaeology, Museums and the Origins of Sydney’, Humanities Research 9:1 (2002): 11. 45 Lucy Frost and Hamish Maxwell-​ Stewart, ‘At Large with the Run-​ a-​ Ways’, Chain Letters:  Narrating Convict Lives, ed. L.  Frost and H.  Maxwell-​Stewart (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 2001), 206.

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13  The Esplanade and the City Gatekeepers Contesting the limits of urban heritage protection Jenny Gregory In December 2013, after months of excavation with bulldozers digging and back-​filling soil, and sand and barges dredging sediment and slurry, water from the Swan River flooded through a cutting into the Western Australian city of Perth’s Esplanade. The Esplanade was in the process of being redeveloped as Elizabeth Quay, a project that included the construction of a 2.7-​hectare inlet and the creation of development sites, new internal roads, promenades and an island with a connecting bridge. The Esplanade, lying at the foot of Perth’s Central Business District near the river’s edge, was a 10-​hectare swathe of grassed parkland bounded by immense-​aged Moreton Bay fig trees on three sides, separated from the river by a four-​lane riverside drive. The redevelopment of the Esplanade, which remains permanently listed on the Western Australian State Register of Heritage Places despite its obliteration, gave rise to huge public controversy. Fundamental to this controversy was the sense of loss that many Perth citizens felt when the redevelopment of this historic site was announced and which intensified as its destruction became imminent. This sense of loss was expressed through a range of heightened emotional responses. Many were angered by the proposed destruction of the historic parkland, others were incensed that legislative protection  –​the act reserving the land for public recreation and the act protecting the site because of its heritage significance –​was ignored. Others were alarmed by the traffic congestion that would be created by the redevelopment, shocked and angered by the cost or simply saddened by the assault on the city’s past. Nowhere was this most strongly expressed than through the protest group the City Gatekeepers, founded to fight against the development.

Place, solastalgia and emotion It is clear that people have strong cultural attachments to familiar places and this is reflected by the extensive literature on the meanings of place by scholars such as Henri Lefebvre, Yi-​Fu Tuan, David C. Harvey and Edward Soja. As urban historian and architect Dolores Hayden has argued,

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The Esplanade and the City Gatekeepers 215 [u]‌rban landscapes are storehouses for … social memories, because natural features such as hills or harbors, as well as streets, buildings and patterns of settlement frame the lives of many people and often outlast many lifetimes. (Hayden, 1995, 9) Memory contributes to place attachment and helps explain why both communities and individuals mourn for places lost to urban renewal.1 Glenn Albrecht coined the term ‘solastalgia’ –​derived from solace, desolation and nostalgia –​to describe the distress felt when a loved place is under assault or is transformed to the extent that it undermines our sense of place identity. He contrasts it with nostalgia, which in its modern sense also involves spatial and temporal dislocation, but includes dispossession. We feel nostalgia for a place that we love but have lost. We may feel solastalgia when a loved place is threatened or during the lived experience of destruction.2 The role of emotions in influencing our sense of place has been highlighted in much recent literature as part of the ‘affective turn.’ As Sarah Dunant and Roy Porter have observed, rapid transformation erodes older values, leading people to feel loss of control and uncertainty about the future.3 Sara Ahmed has also noted that emotions reveal the attachments that hold people in place and connect them to the world. Observing that the word emotion once described civil unrest and public commotion, she argues that, even today, emotions represent sites of political and cultural work through which activism takes place.4 Emotional contagion, as she puts it, enables emotions to move between bodies, so that emotions affect action and create political possibilities.5 James Jasper has charted the emotions of protest movements.6 Inchoate anxiety and fear about an issue, he argued, is transformed by a moral shock. This is the first step in the development of a protest movement, as dread turns into righteous indignation activating individuals to join together to direct their moral outrage towards ‘concrete policies and decision makers.’7 With someone or something blamed, people then articulate common problems and solutions in which a sense of righteousness draws power both from positive and negative emotions: hope, fear, outrage or anger. He notes that as protest movements gain strength, ‘defining oneself through the help of a collective label entails an affective as well as cognitive mapping of the social world.’8 Protest becomes ‘a way of saying something about oneself and one’s morals, and finding joy and pride in them.’9 Ahmed also noted: ‘it is hope that makes involvement in direct forms of political activism enjoyable … Hope is crucial to the act of protest: hope is what allows us to feel that what angers us is not inevitable, even if transformation can sometimes feel impossible.’10 According to Jasper, identification with a social movement comes from its emotional pull  –​the affective ties of friendship, love, solidarity,

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216  Jenny Gregory loyalty that are generated. Moreover, emotion is necessary for people to shift to active protest. Even when success is unlikely, pride and dignity may grow as people identify with a cause. On occasion protest succeeds, but often frustration, exhaustion and unrealistic expectations can lead groups to disband. Leading historian in the field of emotions Peter Stearns called on historians to consider the role of changing emotions in explaining protest history.11 This chapter takes up his challenge by examining emotional responses to the destruction of Perth’s Esplanade. It is in two parts. First, in order to contextualise the level of protest that developed, I outline the history of the Esplanade, including past threats to its existence, the planning process that enabled its destruction and the level of protection offered by state heritage legislation. Second, utilising the insights outlined above, I then turn to an analysis of the protest movement that developed in response to the proposed destruction of the Esplanade. History of the Esplanade The Esplanade did not always exist. Originally reed beds covered the site, which was a fishing place for the many generations of the Whadjuck Noongar people who knew it as Gumap.12 In 1829, just a few months after the west coast of the continent had been annexed by the British, Lieutenant Governor James Stirling and a small party travelled up the Swan River to establish the city of Perth. It was at this site that they clambered out of their boat after nudging through the reeds to reach the river bank. A commissariat was built nearby in 1834 to house government stores.13 Boatmen piggybacked passengers and waded through mud for 30–​40 feet to get them to the shore before two jetties were built in the 1840s.14 A  decade later the river was dredged to improve access, and sand dumped to fill in the shallows.15 In 1863, there was a call for reclamation of the shallows to establish a recreation ground between the jetties.16 The governor piled a few stones up to mark its river boundary and people were told to dump rubbish on the site. By 1872 it was heaped with ‘disgusting rubbish to the great danger of foot and other passengers.’17 The smell was a potential threat to health, according to the miasma theory, and community pressure to create the recreation ground increased. Eventually, on 31 March 1880, the reclaimed land was given to ‘the Council and Burgesses of the City of Perth … upon trust … so that the same may be henceforth used and enjoyed by the inhabitants of our City of Perth … solely … as a place of public recreation … for the city forever,’ with the proviso that the Crown could resume the land for ‘works of public utility or convenience’ on payment of compensation.18 The Esplanade, as it was named, quickly became a focus for sport (Figure  13.1). People enjoyed promenading there, listening to band performances and watching parades of troops. It was also an ideal venue for civic events. The Perth Intercolonial Exhibition (1881), the Proclamation

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The Esplanade and the City Gatekeepers 217

Figure 13.1 This image shows a cricket match on the Esplanade, but note that a section is still under water. ‘The Esplanade’ (late 1870s), embroidery by Henry Passmore. Courtesy Royal Western Australian Historical Society.

of Self Government (1890) and celebrations when the Australian states federated to form the Commonwealth of Australia (1901) were all held there. Later the Esplanade was used as the first airstrip in Perth in the 1920s.19 A kiosk with change rooms for sport was built in 1928. From the 1890s to the 1960s there was a ‘speakers’ corner’ on the Esplanade. Almost every Sunday, hundreds would turn up to hear the ‘stump orators.’ Radical organisations held rallies there and it was the starting point for protest marches. It was the site of conscription and anti-​ conscription rallies during World War I, protests by the unemployed and secession meetings in the 1930s, campaigns against banning the Communist Party of Australia in 1952, scores of union meetings, nuclear disarmament meetings in the 1980s, the celebration marking Australia II’s victory in the America’s Cup in 1983 and the Commonwealth Heads of Government meeting (CHOGM) Barbeque for Queen Elizabeth II in 2011.

Threats to the Esplanade There had been various threats to the Esplanade over the years. Between 1906 and 1937, it was reduced in size and separated from the river by the construction of Riverside Drive. In the 1960s, a proposal to turn this into

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218  Jenny Gregory a six-​lane freeway created immense controversy and was dropped. Other plans were considered in the 1980s and 1990s involving extensive public consultation. While people wanted the river and foreshore to be developed as an integral part of the city, they did not want the Esplanade built on. They wanted the existing parks and gardens to be maintained and increased.20 In 2008 a plan by Melbourne architects Ashton Raggatt McDougall with local landscape architect Richard Weller threatened the Esplanade with destruction. The area was to be ‘transformed into a cove surrounded by skyscrapers’ with ‘new roads and bridges, man-​made river inlets and an island shaped like a swan … Riverfront land was to be sold or leased to developers to build shops, bars and apartments.’21 The editor of the West Australian newspaper judged it ‘bold and visionary,’ but warned that the proposal was likely to be met with ‘guarded scepticism, if not downright cynicism, as well as the usual flurry of instant protest that any plan for significant development on a Perth waterway faces … This time,’ wrote the editor, ‘the Government should say no to the naysayers and go for it.’22 Those in favour of development began to talk about ‘getting rid of the old front lawn,’ in reference to the Esplanade.23 The state architect, rejecting suggestions that the proposed development looked like Dubai or Disneyland, noted that the plan was only indicative of the likely scale of the development.24 The city architect gave a scathing critique and the City of Perth’s planning committee rejected the plan, noting that the buildings were too big, destroyed view corridors, replaced too much open space (the Esplanade) and posed engineering problems.25 It was not long before local independent think-​tank ‘City Vision,’ comprised of well-​known planners, architects, heritage and arts practitioners, came up with an alternative plan, soon slammed by young planners under the umbrella of their organisation, ‘FuturePerth.’26 The government’s public consultation showed that 66 per cent of ‘official community feedback’ was in favour of the development.27 A change in government in 2009 signalled a change in plans.28 ‘A new vision for Perth’ was announced. Now labelled ‘an integrated river port’ rather than ‘a cove,’ the office and apartment towers were reduced to seven storeys near the river ranging up to 30 storeys near the city centre. The swan-​shaped island, widely ridiculed as kitsch, was replaced by an amoeba-​ shaped island. Further sweeteners included an Aboriginal art centre and a cable car to King’s Park. The new Liberal Party premier, Colin Barnett, said that the project offered ‘the best real estate in Australia,’ with land sales expected to recoup much of the infrastructure costs.29 By this stage, however, Western Australia’s mining boom had begun to cool and the property sector cast doubt on the ability of the market to absorb the development. The City of Perth and the West Australian newspaper talked up the project, citing the long history of waterfront plans and expressing frustration at potential delays, though government sources began to speak of a 10–​15-​ year project.30 Nevertheless, pushing ahead with a commencement date of

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The Esplanade and the City Gatekeepers 219 2012, the government announced cabinet approval (now of a $440-​million project). The lord mayor greeted the announcement as an ‘opportunity to rebrand Perth on the global stage.’31

The planning process and the limits to heritage protection During the planning process that followed cabinet approval, decisions by the WA Planning Commission (WAPC), the City of Perth and the Heritage Council of WA were crucial to its approval and ongoing development. As I will show, public documents reveal that the decision making process followed by the City of Perth and the WAPC was flawed. Decisions by the City of Perth had a crucial impact on the fate of the Esplanade. The city resolved to support the project and approved acquisition of the land by the state government.32 Subsequently, council officers flagged concern that documentation provided by Heritage Council of WA consultants was not accurate, that most of the elements with cultural heritage significance were to be demolished and there was no indication that the history of the site was to be interpreted.33 The WAPC rejected or ignored most of the conditions presented by the council, and the land was transferred from city to state on 31 January 2012.34 Thus the land that had been granted to the City of Perth ‘solely’ for ‘the recreation and enjoyment of the people forever’ was handed over to the state government. There were no formal opportunities for people to have input into the city’s decision-​ making process and the state government’s treatment of public submissions was questionable. The WAPC dismissed concerns about the heritage listing of the Esplanade Reserve using spurious and inconsistent arguments based on insufficient or incorrect evidence.35 The proposal went before the Western Australian Parliament and although there were motions to disallow it in both houses, they failed. The government’s planning process ignored protection for the Esplanade that many thought accompanied heritage listing. The Esplanade Reserve was listed permanently on the State Heritage Register in 2003.36 Listing is a complex business and, when achieved, should guarantee permanent protection under the Heritage of Western Australia Act 1990. Entry in the register means that any changes or works proposed for the place must be referred to the Heritage Council for advice and determination. However, the Heritage Council is not the approving authority under the act –​this was the WAPC, and it had delegated its decision making powers for the Perth Waterfront Project to the Central Perth Planning Committee (CPPC). It resolved to broadly support the concept, noting that formal development applications would address the proposed preservation, adaptation and interpretation of the significant heritage elements of the place.37 While it is of concern that the chair of the Heritage Council was also a member of the Central Perth Planning Committee, the Heritage Council considered that it had little choice but to accept the government’s decision to destroy the Esplanade Reserve.

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220  Jenny Gregory Surprisingly, the Esplanade remains on the State Heritage Register even though it no longer exists. One might expect that it would have been removed from the register. There are two major reasons why this has not occurred. First, the Heritage Council believed it could influence the development, in particular to ensure that the 1928 kiosk was relocated to another part of the site and to guide interpretation of the site. Second, the legislation is clear that a place can only be removed from the register by a resolution of both houses of state parliament. The level of protest against the destruction of the Esplanade was such that to allow parliamentary debate on delisting the Esplanade, beyond that already occasioned by several petitions, would stir up a hornets’ nest. Parliament might even have rejected the delisting, especially as the government’s balance of power was on a knife-​edge at that time.

Analysing emotional responses The controversy surrounding the city and the government’s activities during the planning process resulted in an outpouring of public emotion in response to the threatened loss of the Esplanade. Inchoate anxieties and fear distinguish the first phase of a protest movement, according to Jasper. People’s anxieties about the plans for the Esplanade must be viewed against past memories of river reclamation. Today most of the City of Perth’s foreshore is reclaimed land. The most recent reclamation was in the 1960s and 1970s when, after a decade of protest, Mounts Bay to the west was filled in for a freeway interchange (Figure 13.2).38 There were also controversies surrounding other foreshore plans, none of which came to fruition. These remain in the memories of many older Perth people. Hence, there was considerable anxiety when the new plan was mooted. Moral shock These vague fears were transformed by a moral shock, as Jasper suggests. This first came when the Labor government announced its plan for the waterfront in February 2008. Soon dubbed ‘Dubai on Swan,’ this plan polarised the community.39 It ignored a 2004 environmental study recommending against building an inlet because of natural constraints:  overshadowing, the prevailing south-​westerly wind, silt deposition, flushing problems, saltwater intrusion and poor building foundations. Just a few days before a state election in 2008 the then-​ opposition leader, though accepting the need for waterfront revitalisation, objected to the plans:  ‘People do not want skyscrapers on the city foreshore and the plan will create an exclusive enclave for corporations and rich apartment owners.’40 Becoming the state premier following the election, he announced a review of the plan. There were a number of hurdles to be negotiated before the resulting master plan could be implemented: an environmental assessment, public comment, the City of Perth’s approval and parliament’s approval of an amendment

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The Esplanade and the City Gatekeepers 221

Figure 13.2 The city of Perth’s waterfront from the Narrows Bridge and freeway interchange in the west to the Causeway in the east. ‘Perth City ’87: Central Area Survey 1987,’ City of Perth, 1988. Courtesy City of Perth.

to the Metropolitan Regional Scheme. At each point the plan could have been rejected, particularly as the new government was two votes short of a majority and relied on the support of independents. But as each hurdle was overcome it seemed that, unlike any of the preceding plans, this one would become a reality. Many believed the public submission process had been manipulated and concern mounted. Anxiety turned to indignation and concerned individuals joined together to direct their moral outrage towards the government. Moral outrage The catalyst for the formal establishment of the protest group was the publication of an opinion piece in Perth’s daily newspaper by planner Dr Linley Lutton, then chair of the Australian Institute of Urban Studies (WA). In a city where planners and architects are often dependent on government contracts, he nailed his colours to the mast bravely, with an article headlined ‘Rethink Plans for Perth Waterfront.’41 In his critique, he listed four major concerns. First, the scale of the project was inappropriate. Second, a heritage place used for social gathering since the 1880s would be

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222  Jenny Gregory wilfully destroyed. Third, the site planning was poor as it faced directly into the prevailing southwesterly winds, the winter sun from the north would be blocked by high-​rise buildings and major traffic problems would be created. Last, six planned high-​rise towers for offices and apartments would constitute overdevelopment of a comparatively small area to be created around the new river inlet. In January 2012, a coalition of around 25 planners, architects, historians, politicians and other disaffected citizens joined together to protest against the development under Lutton’s leadership. They voiced a range of emotions: indignation that land belonging to the people was to be handed over to private developers; anger that the historic values of the Esplanade were being ignored; distress that the mighty-​aged Moreton Bay fig trees bordering the Esplanade would be destroyed; fear of the environmental impact on the Swan River; and, from nearby ferry operators, fear (correctly, as it transpired) that their businesses would be badly affected during development. Much fear coalesced around likely traffic chaos, as members believed that was the key political issue, which would garner support from the public and local government authorities adjacent to the city.42 The group gave themselves a collective label, ‘City Gatekeepers.’ Lutton’s communications to the group drew on nostalgia for the protest movements of the 1960s. Each ended with a quotation from Margaret Mead –​‘Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.’ And from time to time he featured the whimsical cartoons of Leunig, Australian cartoonist and cultural commentator. In the following image (Figure  13.3), which Lutton circulated, the little man is assailed by corporate power. As Jasper notes, strength of identification with a social movement comes from its emotional side and that emotion is necessary for people to shift to active protest. Monique Scheer agrees. In discussing the mobilisation of emotions, she points out that emotional practices involve ‘manipulation of body and mind to evoke feelings where there are none, to focus diffuse arousals and give them an intelligible shape, or to change or remove emotions already there.’43 Put simply, they are part of emotional management. By promoting nostalgia for the 1960s and drawing on a well-​known critic of corporate power, Lutton, whether intentionally or unintentionally, mobilised emotions to generate commitment to the cause. Looking for a scapegoat Scheer also notes that political activism relies on ‘the practice of negative feelings’44 and, as Jasper argues, there must be someone to blame. Much of the discussion within the City Gatekeepers was by email and it is clear from their communications that this was a well-​educated and articulate group. As one of the group wrote,

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The Esplanade and the City Gatekeepers 223

Figure 13.3 Leunig’s ‘Definitive Awfulising’ cartoon. Courtesy Michael Leunig.

I believe that the failures are due to the way the planning and management arms of the public service in WA have been administered over several decades by successive governments … The current flawed plan is merely a product of a sick system that has only one mantra ‘Get into bed with fast buck development and you don’t need to worry about tomorrow, you will feel good today.’45 This was typical of the sense of frustration with government felt by members of the City Gatekeepers. Much blame was sheeted home to the premier. He was nicknamed Col ‘Pot’ Barnett by one City Gatekeeper.46 But, although a scapegoat had been found, members diverged in their approach. Some were willing to denigrate the premier openly –​‘We’re already blessed with a Premier who is daily putting people offside with his “My way or the highway” dismissive attitude.’47 Others were concerned to avoid any hint of defamation: ‘The message must be non-​personal. It’s not against Mr Barnett, it’s against a lousy policy that’s been around since before his term and is perpetuated by public servants.’48 There was also discussion about the most appropriate language to be used in communication: ‘I’d advise against using

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224  Jenny Gregory “swindle” and “theft” [in letter to MPs],’ wrote one member, ‘[m]‌ore parliamentary language would be appropriate here.’49 Frame alignment Jasper notes that protest groups gradually formulate a common definition of a social problem and develop a common prescription for solving it.50 The City Gatekeepers grappled with this issue as they gathered information. The development was complex and there were many stakeholders in the development camp. Although the key decision makers were the WAPC and the Central Perth Planning Committee, the process of development involved negotiating a raft of legislative requirements, responsibility for which was diffused across a number of government departments. In the Gatekeepers’ camp, each member had their own particular barrow to push. But they were generally in agreement that a clear articulation of their aims was essential. One of the stumbling blocks was that some protesters were sidetracked by requests for an alternative plan. It wasn’t enough for protesters to use the slogan ‘demand a better plan,’ their detractors egged them on to come up with an alternative plan. With many key members of the group, either planners or architects, the challenge was irresistible. Some had been involved in the development of earlier plans for the waterfront and there were differences of opinion in what the best plan might be. This led to some emotional stress and an ultimatum from the leader; ‘I think it comes to this. If a member can’t work with the team and follow the need for consistency then they should not be part of the Gatekeeper group.’51 A key issue was the complexity of the issue; ‘There are lots of different views of the shortcomings of the plan, and the way in which it was hatched. We know we are facing a “many headed planning hydra”.’52 A further concern was the negative image that the City Gatekeepers gained. This resulted from their collective name. Rather than suggesting watchfulness, as anticipated, it suggested people who control or block access. Supporters of the development took full advantage of this. As a spokesman for property developers wrote: Once again, we see a group of ‘yesterday’s men and women’ trying to use worn-​out ideas to argue against change and progress … I hope the gatekeepers stay behind the locked gates of their minds and let the rest of the world get on with life.53 The Gatekeepers, who had always maintained that they were not against development but wanted a better plan, discussed this depiction with alarm: We are already being painted by opposition forces as old has-​beens, whose days are past, ‘Grass keepers’, as the Premier referred to us on

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The Esplanade and the City Gatekeepers 225 [radio] yesterday … Old Fogey Nay-​sayers with no imagination who are stuck in the Wait Awhile 70s!’54 Nevertheless, they were heartened by a news poll showing that views on the waterfront were divided, with 31% ‘keep the current plans,’ 28% ‘go for a scaled down version’ and 32% ‘scrap and leave the waterfront alone.’ Only a third of those polled supported the plan.55 The Gatekeepers decided to hold a public rally on the Esplanade on Sunday, 26 February. But although the rally provided a focus, the ‘clear, socially agreed-​upon signs’ that Scheer refers to took time emerge. During some intense weeks of activity, a website was developed, a flyer and advertisements announcing the rally on the Esplanade were produced and a petition was composed. But, via email, there was extensive and abrasive argument and several drafts of advertisements and flyers were circulated. One advertisement (Figure  13.4) appeared before there was general agreement about its content, leading to frustration and despair, ‘For the full page advertisement in The West Australian to say in bold “A better plan to be released before the rally”, when there was general agreement there should be a number of plans or none, I am ready to give up.’56 And another, ‘I am concerned that we are tripping over ourselves and sometimes getting things all wrong because so many unilateral decisions are being taken.’57 Another pointed out that the time for professional debate was no longer appropriate, The reality is, that … the current state government has chosen to ignore any professional submissions unfavourable to its view point … This battle now needs the general public to take over the fight and we won’t win their hearts and minds with academic debate, rather imagery, slogans, emotional appeal and truth.58 As the date approached disagreements reduced and the task turned to the rally and the petition. Media exposure hotted up (Figure  13.5) and they were buoyed by funding support from many individuals and messages of support for the rally; ‘I can’t tell you how angry I (and many friends) feel about all this … thank you for all that you do to save our beautiful city.’59 The day of the rally arrived. There were speeches and a cheering crowd committed to ‘demand a better plan,’ the rallying cry that finished each speech. According to the Minister for Planning, the rally was attended by only 500 people. Outrage was the response amongst Gatekeepers. The petition circulated at the rally showed over 2000 new signatures.60 But the Esplanade could hold over 100,000 people and the number of people who attended looked small in such an expansive area. Hopes then focused on the petition. Ultimately, with 13,000 signatures collected, it was presented to parliament before the Legislative Council vote on the amendment needed to make the development a reality.61 Despite a

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Figure 13.4 Flyer advertising the protest rally, February 2012. Photograph by Jenny Gregory.

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Figure 13.5 Advertisement publicising the protest rally. West Australian, Saturday, 25 February 2012.

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228  Jenny Gregory three-​hour debate, watched by many Gatekeepers who packed the public gallery, the Opposition’s disallowance motion to block the amendment failed.62 As Ahmed writes ‘[e]‌ven when success is unlikely, pride and dignity may grow as people identify with a cause.’ To ensure continued media coverage and keep the issue alive, the Gatekeepers continued to deliver public lectures and stage small-​scale protests, rallying on the river foreshore, outside a Perth City Council meeting and at Parliament House.63 They also made submissions to the Metropolitan Regional Authority (MRA), the government agency responsible for the development. By this time, in a carefully orchestrated media event, work began on the Perth Waterfront Project when the premier and the minister for planning turned the first sods on the Esplanade.64 The ten hectares of riverfront land was be transformed into a ‘vibrant contemporary development,’ said the minister. Summing up the government’s view, he continued, If people want to continue to have academic debates about the merits or otherwise of this project that’s up to them but … the reality [is] … this project is now underway… There are machines on the site, the site has been fenced off and the time for debate about what is actually going to occur or not is finished. People need to accept that as a government we have made a decision and the project is happening.65 Two days later, the premier announced that the development would be named Elizabeth Quay in recognition of the barbecue held on the Esplanade for Queen Elizabeth II during CHOGM in 2011.66 Although there was widespread respect for the queen in Perth, such royalist sentiments did not reflect the mood of the public and provided a dream subject for cartoonists. The last-​ditch stand by protesters was a Citizens’ Enquiry announced in November 2012 by City Vision, the urban think-​tank closely associated with the Gatekeepers. It was headed by three leading retired professionals –​ a judge, an historian and an architect –​and called for submissions from 12 invited experts. Its findings were announced two months later, just prior to the State Election. It recommended that the project be halted immediately and a full enquiry be held, as ‘the process followed has been badly flawed, resulting in a flawed scheme and design.’67 But with the emphatic re-​election of the Liberal government, the findings of the Citizens’ Enquiry were ignored. There were several attempts by the government to address community concerns about the loss of place. First, by the relocation of the 1928 kiosk to a small island in the inlet, despite the protests of the heritage lobby.68 Second, by moving the statue of World War I hero Sir Joseph John Talbot Hobbs, which had stood on the site of the inlet since 1940, watching over hundreds of military parades on the Esplanade.69 Third, through street naming. One

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The Esplanade and the City Gatekeepers 229 was named Geoffrey Bolton Avenue, after Western Australia’s most eminent historian, to acknowledge his contribution ‘in conserving, recording and teaching Western Australian history.’ Others were named after passenger ferries that operated on the river in the early twentieth century (Enchantress, Duchess, Zephyr, Valdura and Ophir).70 Last, through commissioning public art works. Two pieces commemorated the site’s history. ‘First Contact’ by Laurel Nannup, a five-​metre-​tall cast aluminium sculpture of a large bird in a boat, was inspired by the Noongar people’s first sight of European settlers, whose distant sailing ships looking like floating birds bearing the white-​ faced spirits of their ancestors. Then there was a bronze statue by Jon Tarry of a youthful Bessie Rischbieth, a feminist and social activist who attempted to stop reclamation of Mounts Bay to build a freeway interchange, by standing in front of a bulldozer in 1964 –​a staged photograph that became an icon of protest in Perth. As one commentator wrote, ‘would she roll in her grave knowing she has been placed on an island as part of a massive redevelopment?’71

Conclusion Continuing news about the end of the mining boom  –​‘A fifth of Perth office spaces are empty’  –​did not dampen the razzmatazz accompanying the opening of Elizabeth Quay.72 No matter that the high-​rise apartments and offices around the inlet had not materialised, the quay was opened on 29 January 2016. The next day, the West Australian newspaper, which at an editorial level had resolutely supported the project, reported ‘Thousands turn out to see Perth’s new look’; an editorial was headlined ‘the Key to the Quay was to push ahead with the Vision,’ an opinion piece concluded ‘From Colin’s canal fizzer to a waterfront showpiece’ and an article argued ‘Critics must give the Quay a fair go.’73 Meanwhile the Post, a local newspaper in the Western Suburbs Liberal Party heartland that had resolutely provided space for critics of the development, featured an article by Lutton: ‘Was the Quay really worth it?’74 The community was still split. Complaints continued. Though some thought the premier ‘a strong fearless leader,’ others saw him as the dictatorial creator of ‘Barnett’s Billabong.’75 The project was plagued with problems. Bacteria was found in the water of the BHP Billiton children’s water-​playground and it was closed for the remainder of the summer.76 The water in the inlet became polluted, leading to cancellation of the swimming leg of a national triathlon.77 A leaked report appeared in the press showing that the MRA was forecasting massive losses partly because private investment in the project had been limited by the downturn in the economy.78 The premier’s assertion that it could be five years or more before developers built the proposed skyscrapers around the inlet was amplified by a past director of planning with the City of Perth: ‘Elizabeth Quay will be a construction site for 30 years.’79

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230  Jenny Gregory One letter-​writer wrote of their first experience of Elizabeth Quay:  ‘I found a soulless, concrete, bare space with scattered expensive highlights. Lovely walk-​bridge, popular ice-​cream van and saw a Venice reproduction motorised gondola. Cost, $450 million. Thank you Colin and Lisa [premier and lord mayor]. I can’t wait for the next anti-​Dullsville project.’80 By now the City Gatekeepers had fallen silent. As this analysis has shown, the deeply felt connection to place had led them to progress through the classic emotional stages of protest proposed by Jasper and to experience solastalgia as the place was obliterated. First, inchoate anxieties and fear, then moral shock leading to outrage, a search for someone to blame, gradual frame alignment with the emergence of a collective identity and the development of affective ties of solidarity and loyalty –​but finally, as success eluded the group, frustration and disappointment. As one wrote, Last Saturday, I chose to drive around Riverside Drive, with the city on my right, alongside the river, and remember how beautiful it was –​the iconic sweep of road flowing towards the university. And then … I was reminded that it is no more. I felt overwhelming sadness and outrage that this could happen. How dare this be taken away from the people of Perth? This land, the space, the magnificent trees which were gifted to them. Something so precious has been lost’.81 Our relationship with places like the Esplanade and the Perth waterfront is complex and dynamic. Although the Esplanade was listed on the State Heritage Register, no degree of emotional protest could change the government’s perception of the value of the place. The power of emotion was not sufficient to save the waterfront. While some remember the historic values of a place, without continuing care and attention to that history, attachment developed over time through emotional links diminish. Hence the affective history of the Esplanade was not enough to protect it for future generations.

Notes 1 Irwin Altman and Setha Low, Place Attachment (Human Behavior and Environment) (New  York:  Plenum Press, 1992); and Peter Read, Returning to Nothing:  The Meaning of Lost Places (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1996). 2 Glenn Albrecht, ‘ “Solastalgia”:  A New Concept in Health and Identity’, PAN (Philosophy, Activism and Nature) 3 (2005): 45–​6. 3 S. Dunant and R. Porter (eds), The Age of Anxiety (London: Virago, 1996), xi, cited in Sara Ahmed, The Cultural History of Emotions (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2004), 72. 4 Ahmed, The Cultural History of Emotions, 10. 5 Rachel C. Rieder, review of Ahmed in Jac: An Online Journal of Rhetoric, Culture and Politics 26:3–​4 (n.d.): 700–​6.

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The Esplanade and the City Gatekeepers 231 6 James M. Jasper, ‘Emotions of Protest: Affective and Reactive Emotions in and around Social Movements’, Sociological Forum 13:3 (1998): 409–​19. 7 Ibid., 409. 8 Ibid., 415. 9 Ibid., 415. 10 Ahmed, Cultural History of Emotions, 184. 11 Peter N. Stearns, ‘Emotions History in the United States: Goals, Methods, and Promise’, Emotions in American History:  An International Assessment, ed. Jessica C.E. Gienow-​Hecht (New York: Berghahn Books, 2010), 23. 12 Debra Hughes-​Hallet, ‘Indigenous History of the Swan and Canning Rivers’, (Curtin University project with the Swan River Trust, 2010), 41–​3. 13 Perth Gazette, 16 November 1833. 14 Perth Gazette, 2 March 1833. 15 Perth Gazette, 11 December 1841, 11 June 1842, 22 February 1850, 21 May 1852, 13 August 1852, 13 May 1853, 22 June 1855; George Seddon and David Ravine, A City and Its Setting:  Images of Perth, Western Australia (Fremantle: Fremantle Arts Centre Press, 1986), 121. 16 Inquirer, 18 March 1863. 17 Inquirer, 10 July 1872. 18 Crown Grant 1066, Title no. 5066, 31 March 1880. 19 Bill Bunbury, ‘Brearley, Sir Norman (1890–​ 1989)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography (National Centre of Biography, Australian National University). http://​ adb.anu.edu.au/​biography/​brearley-​sir-​norman-​12250/​text219799 (accessed 22 March 2017). 20 PCC Minutes, 16 September 1985, 17 February 1986, 13 April 1992. 21 West Australian, 14 February 2008. 22 West Australian, 15 February 2008. 23 Paul Murray, West Australian, 16 February 2008. 24 Professor Geoffrey London, West Australian, 10 March 2008. 25 West Australian, 16 and 18 April 2008. 26 West Australian, 19 June 2008. 27 West Australian, 20 June 2008. 28 West Australian, 3 April 2009. 29 West Australian, 14 December 2009. 30 West Australian, 15 December 2009. 31 West Australian, 16 February 2011. 32 City of Perth Council Minutes, 6 December 2011 noting the resolution of 17 May 2011. ‘Comments to the WAPC on the proposed Metropolitan Region Scheme (MRS) Amendment No. 1203/​41 for the Perth Waterfront to reserve the land as Public Purpose –​Special Use and the Stage 1 Environmental Assessment Report.’ City of Perth Council Minutes, 6 December 2011 Lot 79 The Esplanade and Lots 901 and 302 Riverside Drive. 33 City of Perth Council Minutes, 6 December 2011. 34 City of Perth Council Minutes, item 57/​12, 31 January 2012, 187. 35 Report on Submissions:  Metropolitan Region Scheme Amendment 1203/​ 41 Perth Waterfront, October 2011, 12. 36 Assessment Documentation, Register of Heritage Places, Heritage Council of Western Australia, 17 October 2003.

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232  Jenny Gregory 37 Graeme Gammie, Executive Director, State Heritage Office to Jenny Gregory, email communication, 12 June 2012. 38 For a full discussion, see Jenny Gregory, ‘Remembering Mounts Bay:  The Narrows Scheme and the Internationalisation of Perth Planning’, Environmental Exchanges:  Studies in Western Australian History 27, ed. Andrea Gaynor and Jane Davis (2011):  145–​66; and Jenny Gregory and Jill L.  Grant, ‘The Role of Emotions in Protests against Modernist Urban Redevelopment in Perth and Halifax’, Urban History Review XLII, Emotions and the City, Special issue, 2 (2014): 44–​59. 39 Dr Lee Stickells, ‘Responses to Perth Waterfront Masterplan, Radar Urbanity’, Architecture Australia (May/​June 2008): 46. 40 West Australian, 3 September 2008. 41 Linley Lutton, ‘Rethink Plans for Perth Waterfront’, West Australian, 20 December 2011. 42 Linley Lutton, City Gatekeepers, letter to supporters, 14 February 2012. 43 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 (2012): 209. 44 Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice’, 210. 45 Ian, email communication, 2 February 2012. 46 Joe, 9 January 2012. 47 Greg, 2 February 2012. 48 Ralph, 10 January 2012. 49 Colin, 13 February 2012. 50 Jasper, ‘Emotions of Protest’, 413. 51 Linley, 17 January 2012. 52 Ian, 17 January 2012. 53 Joe Lenzo, Executive Director, Property Council of Australia, letter to the editor, West Australian, 18 January 2012. 54 Greg, 2 February 2012. 55 West Australian, 23 January 2012. 56 Max, 4 February 2012. 57 Colin, 4 February 2012. 58 Greg, 2 February 2012. 59 Anon., 7 February 2012. 60 Barry, 26 February 2012. 61 An Opposition Member of the WA Legislative Council (the Upper House) moved that the Metropolitan Regional Scheme, Amendment No. 1203/​41  –​ Perth Waterfront published in the Government Gazette on 14 October 2011 and tabled in the Legislative Council on 18 October 2011 under the Planning and Development Act 2005, be disallowed, December 2013. 62 WA Legislative Council, Votes and Proceedings, 7 March 2012. 63 Gatekeepers flyer advertising Parliament House rally, c. early June 2012. 64 WA Today, 26 May 2012. www.watoday.com.au/​wa-​news/​work-​begins-​on-​440-​ million-​perth-​waterfront-​project-​20120426-​1xn20.html (accessed 22 March 2017). 65 Sydney Morning Herald, 26 April 2012. 66 WA Today, 28 May 2012. www.watoday.com.au/​wa-​news/​another-​prime-​wa-​ spot-​named-​after-​the-​20120528-​1zewc.html#ixzz2xV5pLZOh (accessed 22

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The Esplanade and the City Gatekeepers 233 March 2017); ‘Mayor Not Amused by Royal Waterfront Name’, West Australian, 29 May 2012. 67 City Vision, Report on Written Submissions of Invited Experts on Difficulties in the Perth City Waterfront Development (Elizabeth Quay), prepared by an independent committee constituted by The Hon Robert Nicholson AO, Emeritus Professor Geoffrey Bolton AO and retired Associate Professor of Architecture David Standen AM and CityVision, ‘The Perth Waterfront Development (Elizabeth Quay) Project: Summary Report of Submissions by Invited Experts and Conclusions and Recommendations’, 31 January 2013. 68 Hon. John Day, Minister for Planning Culture and the Arts, media statement, 11 November 2012. 69 Neville Green, historian, letter to the editor, West Australian, 3 November 2014. 70 Hon. John Day, Minister for Planning Culture and the Arts, media statement, 15 October 2015. www.mediastatements.wa.gov.au/​Pages/​Barnett/​2015/​10/​Ahoy-​ to-​EQ-​street-​names-​with-​a-​nautical-​twist-​-​.aspx (accessed 16 October 2015); and West Australian, 16 October 2015. 71 ‘Giant Bird Comes Home to Roost at Quay’, West Australian, 16 December 2015; and Laetitia Wilson, ‘Quay Art Opens Up our Hearts and Minds’, West Australian, 13 February 2016. 72 Sian Johnson, ‘A Fifth of Perth Office Spaces are Empty’, ArchitectureAU, 26 October 2015. http://​architectureau.com/​articles/​a-​fifth-​of-​perth-​office-​spaces-​ are-​empty/​ (accessed 8 June 2017). 73 West Australian, 30 January 2016. 74 Post, 16 January 2016. 75 Suzanne Fielding, Post, 23 January 2016; Alston, cartoon, West Australian, 11 December 2015; Sean Woods, Letter to the Editor, West Australian, 30 January 2016. 76 WA Today, ‘WA Government Splashed out $3 Million to Finish Elizabeth Quay Water Park:  Labor’, 16 March 2016. www.watoday.com.au/​wa-​news/​wa-​ government-​splashed-​out-​3-​million-​to-​finish-​elizabeth-​quay-​water-​park-​labor-​ 20160316-​gnkuf0.html (accessed 22 March 2017). 77 ‘More Water Woes at Quay’, West Australian, 15 April 2016. 78 ‘MRA’s $13m Forecast Loss Kept Secret’, West Australian, 2 February 2016. 79 ‘Barnett Sets a Quay Time Limit’, West Australian, 11 December 2014; Max Hipkins, past director of planning, City of Perth, West Australian, 15 December 2014. 80 Peter Hayes, Letter to the editor, West Australian, 28 April 2016. 81 Tricia O’Reilly, Letter to the editor, West Australian, 28 November 2015. Three years later, much of Elizabeth Quay is a construction site, with seven-​storey buildings, including a Ritz-​Carlton Hotel, under construction on its eastern flank. The northern lots, on which 30-​storey buildings are planned, remain grassland, a faint echo of the grassy stretches of the old Esplanade. At present this is used for entertainment.

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Index

Aberdeen 53, 149 Aboriginal Land Council of Tasmania 120 absconding 203, 210 absence 21, 30n9, 37, 58, 99, 103, 109, 168, 190 Ackroyd, Peter 102–​3 Addison, Jon 11, 12, 14n5, 148–​67 adoption 87, 88, 89 Aelred of Rievaulx 40 affect theories 6, 94, 100 affection 12, 75, 76, 79, 85, 91–​4, 107, 171, 188 Affective Turn 3, 6, 215 afterlife 24 agency 12, 172 see also objects Agnus Dei 27–​9 Ahmed, Sara 7, 215, 228 Albrecht, Glenn 215 Allport, Morton 166n42 American Revolution 168, 205 America’s Cup 217 ancestral relationships 5; see also family ancestry 5, 11, 12, 53–​6, 57, 59, 101–​2, 139; see also blood; bloodlines; ethnicity; family; nation Ancient Monument Act (1882) 14n11 anger 44, 127, 214, 215, 222 Anglo Saxon/​Pre-​Conquest architecture 34, 41–​2; blending with Norman 35–​6, 43–​4; loss of architecture 34 Anglo-​Australians 134, 135, 36, 144 Anglo-​Saxon 37, 40–​1, 42, 43; manuscripts 43 Anglo-​Scottish wars 53, 55, 63n7 anguish 35, 38, 39, 79; Anne Hathaway’s Cottage 108; Anne of Cleves 69

Anson Brothers 149, 158, 159 Antiquaries 9, 63, 68, 69, 71, 148; antiquarian 23, 75, 152, 162 anxiety 87, 185, 186, 215, 220, 221, 230 archaeology 21, 30n9, 35, 41, 119, 128, 169, 180 architecture 34–​46, 76, 155, 163, 200; and emotion 34–​5; as display of power 35–​6, 41; see also Norman architecture; Anglo Saxon/​Pre-​ conquest architecture Arden Family 101, 102, 108 Arden, Mary 100 Arthur, Sir George 168 asceticism 37 attachment 8, 13, 40, 89, 92, 93, 94, 98n57, 214, 215, 230 Attunement 143, 145 Auckland 183, 184, 185, 186, 188, 190, 193, 194 Austin, Linda 10, 143–4 Australia 1, 3, 8, 9, 11, 123, 132n4, 134, 135, 137, 139, 143; Australian Cultural Identity 198; Commonwealth of 199, 217; Commonwealth Government of 201 Australian Federation 134, 208 Australian Institute of Urban Studies 221 authority 37, 53, 56, 61, 62, 67, 118, 183, 189, 201, 219 awe 68, 145, 166n39 Bærenholdt, Jørgen 6 Bagnall, Gaynor 6, 138 banishment 171 baptism/​baptismal practices 22, 39, 48n31, 87, 88, 90, 107–​8, 109

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Index 257 Barclay, Katie 5, 11, 12, 84–​98 Barmy Army 198, 209 Barnes, Michael 23, 24, 26 Barnett, Colin 218, 223, 229 Barton, Richard E. 44 Bass Straight 117, 118, 214; see also Flinders Island Basse, William 73 Bastard, Thomas 74 Bathurst Free Press 199 Battle of Hastings 36 Bay of Skail 19 Beattie, John Watt 12, 148–​64; as collector 148–​9, 150–​8; as photographer 149, 150–​1; Port Arthur, Van Diemen’s Land 162 Beaumont, Francis 73 Behaviours 6, 39, 41, 42, 45, 100, 102, 109, 110n2, 129, 170, 172, 177; see also emotional articulation Bell, Duncan 139 Bennett, Jane 12 Bentham, Jeremy 177 Berwick-​upon-​Tweed  52 Bethune, David 92–​3 Bible/​Biblical 76, 101 Bill, William 70, 75 Birmingham 179 Blackfriars Gatehouse 108 Blanchfield, Lyn A. 44 Blood 11, 12, 13, 54, 55, 62, 63, 74, 85, 87, 88, 91, 92, 93, 94, 99, 100, 101, 104, 105, 108, 109, 117, 122, 125, 128, 129, 131, 134–​140, 183, 184, 186, 187, 188, 194, 200, 201, 202, 210, 211; and emotion 135; and life force 86; and race 135; and wetnursing 87; bad blood 199, 202, 208, 210; breastmilk as type of 86; concept of 85–​9, 134; historic health benefits of drinking 86; semen as type of 86; terminology 11–​12; see also bloodlines; families; ethnicity; ancestry; nation Blood of Christ 86 Bloodlines 5, 12, 37, 54, 59, 105; see also families; familial inheritance practices Bloodshed 8, 37, 62; see also genocide; massacre Blue Tier 125 Bock, Thomas 130 bodies 7, 10, 39, 44, 61, 62, 76, 79, 87, 101, 104, 122, 130, 134, 136, 172,

185, 200, 205, 215, 222; see also embodiment Bodmin Moor 26 Bolton, Geoffrey 229 Botany Bay 199 Bourdieu, Pierre 7, 175; see also Habitus breastfeeding 87–​8; and family identity 87; wetnursing 87–​8, 93 Breen, Shayne 121; Aboriginal Connections with Launceston Places 121 Brigham, Nicholas 69 Britain 139, 156, 168; population pressures of 168 British Isles 54, 203, 205, 206, 208 Brocas, Bernard 70 Broch of Gurness 19, 21 Brochs 19, 21 Brooke, Elizabeth 76 Broomhall, Susan 5, 11, 12, 99–​113 Brough of Birsay 19, 22 Bruny Island 125 Brutus, founding myth of 53–​5, 59 buildings 1, 2, 8, 11, 20, 21, 24, 29, 35, 36, 41, 42, 43, 44–​6, 86, 108, 109, 120, 122, 141, 157, 169, 190, 215, 218, 220, 222, 233n81 burial cairns see stone burial cairns burial practices 19, 67–​9; funerals 77, 79, 102, 130, 186 Burke, Sir John Bernard 136 Burns, Joseph 12, 183, 184–​5, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195n13, 196n34 Burns, Robert 169, 172, 176 Burra Charter 118, 132, 132n4 Butler, Judith 6 Cabinet of Curiosities 152 Caithness 58 Callendar à Beckett, William Arthur 136 Cambridge, Ada 145 Camden, William 72–​3, 76 Cameron, Patsy 5, 8, 11, 13, 117–​33 Campbell Family 84 Campbell, John, Earl of Breadalbane 88 Canterbury 42, 43 Carey/Boleyn, Mary 71 Carson, Terry 187 Cascades Female House of Correction/ Female Factory 154

258

258 Index Cataract Gorge 122; First Basin 119, 122 Catholicism 69 caves: sacred 128–​9 Cecil, Robert 76 Cecil, William 71, 77 Central Perth Planning Committee 219, 224 Chadwick, N.K. 24, 25 Chambers, R.W. 103 Charland, Louis 175 Chaucer, Geoffrey 68, 69, 135–​6 Christian, William 44 Christianity 21, 22, 37, 85–​6; and cults of saints 37; and heritage practices 22–​26 City Gatekeepers 214, 222–​8; email correspondence of 222–​4 City of Perth 216, 218, 219, 220, 229 civil registration of births, deaths and marriages 206 Clans (Scottish) 84, 85, 88; tartan 94; see also family Clarke, Marcus 152, 155; For the Terms of His Natural Life 155 coins 28–​9 Colchester 43 Cole, Douglas 135 collecting institutions 5; archives 57, 200, 201; museums 6, 12, 80, 119, 149, 152–​3, 154, 155, 157, 158–​9, 161, 164, 164n7, 166n33; see also Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery; Pitt Rivers Museum; Port Arthur Museum College of Arms 102 colonisation 19–​30, 34–​46, 184, 209; and cartography 57–​61; and naming practices 127–​8; impacts of for indigenous people 117–​132 Colquhoun, Sir Humphrey 89–​90 Commemoration 12, 30, 38, 122; monumental commemoration 67–​71; national 68, 74; of the dead 67–​81 Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting 217 Commonwealth of Australia 217 communities 3, 5, 7, 11, 84, 118, 215; and heritage 6, 10; see also emotional communities consolation 55, 79 contemplation 67, 71, 74–​5; see also Memento Mori/​Memento for Mortality

Convict Stain 12, 148, 155, 163, 164n1, 198–​99, 207, 208, 210; creation of myths 163 Cooper, Tracy-​Anne  38 copyright 158 Coronation 58, 68 Crawford, Patricia 85 Crawford, R.M. 199 crime 168, 170, 172, 178, 183, 184–​8, 190, 191, 192, 193, 198; as infectious 198–​9; intergenerational transmission 198–​9 crying 34–​5, 38–​41, 44–​5, 202; see also tears D’Arcens, Louise 10, 11, 134–​47 Daily Southern Cross 186, 187, 188 Dark Tourism 12, 191–​2; Thanatourism 169 Davidoff, Leanore 85 Davison, Graeme 5, 149, 162 de Serville, Paul 136, 139 Deep Pasts 8, 124, 138; see also temporality Deep Time see Deep Pasts Dekker, Thomas 72 Denev, Jasper 104 Denmark 27 Derwent River (Tasmania) 2, 117 Derwent Valley (Tasmania) 149 desire 10, 38, 51, 53, 55, 56, 62, 76, 84, 91, 101, 135, 139, 148, 152, 156, 157, 159, 161, 162, 185, 187, 198, 211 Devonport (New Zealand) 183, 184, 190, 192, 193, 195 Devonport Borough Council 183 Diggelmann, Lindsay 44 Dilke, Sir Charles 139 Dissolution of the Monasteries 68, 69 DNA analysis 84, 94 Douglas Family 84 Dramaturgical models 6; see also performativity; Butler, Judith Duder, Thomas 187, 188, 190, 191, 193, 194 Dumfries 53 Dunant, Sarah 215 Dunbar 53 Duncan-​Jones, Katherine 105, 106 Dundee 53, 58 Dunfermline 51 Durham 57

 259

Index 259 Eaglehawk Neck 152 Earl Erland Haraldsson 25 Earl Harald Maddadarson 25 Earl Rognvald 22 Early Modern Poetry 73–​5 Edinburgh 51, 53, 58, 61; Castle 66n40 Edward I 59 Edward IV 51, 57, 59 Edward the Confessor 36, 57, 68 Effigies 70, 76 Egilsay 20, 22 Elegiacs 38, 40, 45, 79; Latin 79–​80; Greek 79 Elizabeth Quay 214, 228, 229–​30, 233n67 embodiment/​embodied 6, 7, 34, 35, 37, 45, 46, 61, 93, 94, 120, 131, 132 emotional articulation 6, 7, 8, 11, 61, 140; see also behaviours; expressions; gestures emotional communities 7, 11, 21, 29 emotional contagion 215 emotional geographies 13, 59, 118 emotional landscapes 13, 40 emotional practice/​emotion as practice 7, 11, 14, 39, 107, 140, 175, 222; and heritage 7, 11, 14 emotional regimes 3, 6, 8, 100, 176–​8 emotional styles 7, 13, 21; see also Gammerl, Benno emotionology 7 emotions: and reason 117–​18; and the ‘affective turn’ 3, 6, 215; concept of 6–​14, 39, 100; histories of 3, 6–​8, 11, 13, 140, 179; performance of 100, 138; temporality of 8, 9–​10, 39–​40, 140; terminology 3–​4, 6–​8; the inheritance of 91–​2 emotives 7, 111n5 empathy 100 empire 1, 8, 41, 53, 57, 134, 163, 191, 210; British 171; Norman 41 England 13, 34, 35, 36, 37, 39, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 54, 55, 56, 57, 62, 71, 80, 88, 101, 134, 135, 179, 190, 198, 206; rights of sovereignty over Scotland 53–​61; war with Scotland 53 Enlightenment 86; Scottish 172 epilepsy 86 epitaphs 75–​6, 77, 80, 106; in Greek 77; in Latin 77, 106 Eruera Maihi Pautone 185 ethnicity 11 Eton 75

European 5, 9, 86, 117, 124, 155, 184, 185, 188, 190, 193, 229 Evesham 36 excommunication 104 execution 12, 27, 86, 168, 183, 185, 187, 188, 189, 190, 192, 193, 194, 195; commemoration 183–​4 experiences 4, 5, 6, 7, 10, 24, 25, 29, 34, 36, 40, 45, 46, 53, 56, 69, 73–​5, 77, 79, 81, 94, 109, 118, 129, 134, 139–​40, 141, 143, 144, 154, 158, 160, 161, 166n40, 169, 170, 173, 178, 191, 192, 193, 200, 201, 202, 206, 209, 230; lived 6, 215 expressions 3, 6, 38, 57, 87, 109, 135, 139; see also emotional articulation fame 68, 73, 80 familial inheritance practices 5, 89–​91 family 5, 10, 12, 36, 57, 59, 69, 71, 79, 81, 99, 101, 102, 103, 107, 109, 125, 138, 144, 149, 183, 185, 186, 187, 190, 191, 202, 205, 206, 207, 208, 210; and blood 11; and heritage 5; and heritage of nations 84–​5, 89, 93–​4; and love and affection 108; and naming practices 84, 89–​91, 90–​2; and spiritual bonds 88–​9; concept of 84–​9; displays of grief 77–​80; in legal terms 86–​7, 89, 91–​2; loss of 210; relationship analysis 84; Scottish 84–​94; see also burial practices; inheritance practices fantasy 145 Farrer, James 23, 25–​6, 27 Faukland 53 fear 8, 10, 25, 26, 29, 73, 74, 80, 129, 165n28, 185, 186, 188, 192, 194, 201, 204, 208, 215, 220, 222, 230 Female House of Correction/​ Female Factory 154, 209, 210; see also Cascades Female House of Correction First Tasmanian People 30n9, 117–​132; Coastal Plains nation 117; Connection to land/country 117–​132; Dromedeena 125; Mannalargenna 117,​ 124–​7,​ 130,​ 132n1; Maulterheerlargenna 130; Moiheene 125; Mouheneener 1–​2; Nimeranner 117; Oyster Bay nation 117; Pleenperenner 117; Pollerelbrener 117; Repatriation of human remains 118; Southeast nations 123; Stoney Creek nation 122; and the Straitsmen

260

260 Index 117; Teekoolterme 117; Tongalongter 117, 125; Woorrady 125; Wyerlooberer 117; Wybalenna 120, 126 First Tasmanian People’s Heritage 1–​2, 117–​132; Ancestral Beings 121, 122, 124–​6, 127, 130, 131; and muttonbirding 118; and nature/​ natural heritage 124–​6; Coming into Being stories 122, 124–​5; ‘Little people’/​Nanginya/​Noilwanah 123–​4; ochre ceremonies 125, 129–​31; smoking ceremonies 125; see also ochre Firth 25 Fitzgibbon, Edmund Gerald 136 Flinders Island 120, 123, 126 Flood, Josephine 129 forgeries 57, 61–​2 fosterage 87, 88, 93 Foucault, Michel 172 France 56, 86; French 37, 39, 108; Old French 4 Frances, Duchess of Suffolk 70, 81n7 Franklin, John 206 friendship 107, 215 frontier violence 195 Gager, Kristin 85 Gammerl, Benno 7, 13, 21; see also emotional styles Garrick, David 109 Gastrell, Reverend Francis 109 Gattrell, V.A.C 188 Gaussian Curve 202 genealogical services 84 genealogy 63, 94, 136, 137, 139–​40; constructions of 134–​46; medieval 138; pedigree hunting 136, 138 genocide 11, 30n9 Gesta Ponificum Anglorum (Deeds of the English Bishops) 34, 38, 39, 41 gestures 6, 39, 109, 120; see also emotional articulation Gilmore, Mary 199 Gipps, Sir George 174, 178 Glasgow 51, 53 glory 69, 73, 79, 80, 173 Gold Rush 198, 199, 204, 205 Gordon River, Damming of 118 Goscelin de St Bertin 41–​2 gothic 12, 163; neo-​gothic  143 graffiti 23, 29 See also stone inscriptions

Grafton, Richard 59, 62 Grant, Sir James 89–​90 Greenblatt, Stephen 103 Gregory the Great 26 Gregory, Jenny 8, 11, 13, 214–​33 grief 3, 10, 35–​6, 38–​41, 44–​6, 67, 74–​80, 103, 109, 129, 176; experience of 79–​80; familial 74 Guelke, Jean Kay 134, 136 Gundulf of Rochester 43 Habitus 7, 176, 178; see also Bourdieu, Pierre Hackness and Crockness 20 haematic desire 140 haematic medievalism 134, 140; see also blood Hagiography 37, 39, 40, 43 Haldrup, Michael 6 Hall, John 104, 105, 106, 108 Hall’s Croft 108 Hamilton, Alexander 90 Hamlin, Tara 107 Hardyng, John 13, 51–​63; maps of Scotland 51–​3, 59–​61; British Library Lansdowne 204 53, 55, 59, 64n7; Bodleian Library, MS Arch. Selden B. 10. 59; British Library Harley MS 661 59 Harman, Kristyn 11–​12, 13, 183–​97 Harrison, Rodney 4 Hart, William 105 Harvard House, 113n50 Harvey, David C. 3, 4, 5, 14n11, 20, 21, 55, 214 Hathaway, Anne 99, 106, 108 Haugar/​supernatural beings  25–​26 Hayden, Dolores 214–​5 Health 12, 45, 73, 87, 88, 207, 216 Heart of Neolithic Orkney 19, 23 Heidegger, Martin 141, 142–​3; Stimmung 143, 145 height 201–​3, 204, 205, 206–​11; calculations of 202 Heminge, John 107–​8 Henry III 68 Henry V 51, 55, 57, 69 Henry VI 51, 57, 59 Henry VII 69, 71 Henry VIII 69, 70 heraldry 70, 75, 76, 138, 139, 144; heraldic fetish 134; heraldic shields 70, 76 Heritage Council of WA 219

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Index 261 heritage site see historic site heritage: ‘official’ and unofficial’ heritage 10, 140; and blood, stone and land 10–​13; and colonisation 19–​30, 34–​46, 184, 209; and emotions esp. 6–​11, 36, 117–​18; and history/​historical processes 2–​3, 10–​11, 63, 68; and inheritance practices 5, 109; and performance 6, 44–​6, 134; and sensory experiences 36; and the history of emotions 3–​4; as a discipline 94; as an accumulation 7–​8, 10; as cultural practice 30; concept of 1–​2, 3–​6, 7–​14, 35–​6, 55–​6, 101, 118–​19, 131–​2, 173; destruction of by mining 122–​3; ethnic 84; geographical 84; heritage-​making 37; loss of 214–​30; manipulation of 63; personal heritage 134, 140; planning processes 219–​20; premodern 3–​6, 11, 142; scholarship 3; terminology 3–​6, 55, 101; the histories of 6–​8, 62–​3; value and 117–​20; see also emotional geographies; historic site; material culture; memory practices; performance Heyns, Michael 142 High Court of Australia 119 Highlands 85 highwaymen 187 historic sites 1–​2, 6, 8, 12, 19–​21, 22, 67–​8, 69, 80, 99, 100, 108–​9, 110, 118–​19, 120–​1, 127–​9, 134, 155, 169, 175, 180, 183–​4, 188, 190, 191–​2, 193–​5, 214, 216–​17, 219, 220; convict 169, 200–​1, 209, 210; see also UNESCO world heritage site historicising 3, 4, 144; and emotions 10–​11, 109, 135; and heritage 3, 10–​11, 46; as a concept 9 HMS Buffalo 184, 187, 190 Hobart (Australia) 1, 2, 8, 120, 121, 149, 150, 152, 157, 161, 205, 206, 207 Hobson, Captain William 190 Hoby, Edward 79 hogback graves 19, 22 Holderness, Graham 103 Holmes, Janet 188 Holy Communion 86 Holy Land 53 Holy Trinity Church 99, 106

home 91, 99, 100, 103, 108, 109, 135, 149, 154, 161, 171, 173, 174, 175, 176, 179, 184, 185, 198, 199, 203, 223; country 139; homesickness 175; see also house; nostalgia homeplace/​homeland 89, 117, 118, 119, 127, 159, 174, 175, 176, 178 hope 77, 79, 80, 103, 142, 177, 215, 224, 225 house/​household 2, 5, 38, 42, 43, 45, 84, 99, 103, 104, 108, 109, 185, 190; and heritage 100–​2; stone 20; terminology 101–​2; see also home Iceland 24 identity 5, 13, 23, 24, 29, 30, 40, 67, 75, 84, 89, 91, 94, 100, 101, 103, 107, 109, 110, 127, 129, 134, 138, 186, 230; Australian cultural 198; family 85, 87, 90, 91, 92, 101; place 215; see also nation illness 202; infection 198, 207; see also mental illness imprisonment practices 168 incarceration regimes 172 individuals 3, 4, 6, 7, 10, 11, 36, 45, 54, 58, 61, 70, 74, 84, 85, 87, 88, 90, 91, 94, 99, 100, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 186, 189, 202, 203, 204, 206, 215, 221, 225; and punishments 172, 177; embodied and affective being 6; emotional life 40; religious life 40 industrialisation 201, 210; and health effects 201–​3 inheritance practices 55–​6; see also familial inheritance practices inscriptions 22–​6, 29–​30, 31n16, 32n37, 32n46, 70, 73, 75, 76, 80; on tombs 70, 76; see also epitaphs intangible heritage 26, 29, 39, 119, 122, 123, 180 interpretation 3, 4, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 24–​7, 29, 40, 59, 99, 100, 103, 107, 108, 109, 110, 121, 122, 140, 142, 148, 149, 154, 180, 210, 219, 220 invasion 13, 53, 57, 58, 61, 62, 117, 199; Hardyng’s plan 51, 54, 57, 62 Ireland 71, 204, 208 Irving, Washington 67 Italy 27, 43 Jacobite Rebellion 89 James VI 71 Jarrow 43

262

262 Index Jasper, James 215–​6, 220, 222, 224, 230 Jenkyns, Richard 68 Jerusalem farers 29 Jesch, Judith 23–​4, 26 Jewish 177 Jonson, Samuel 103 Jordon River (Tasmania) 118–​19, 120, 121 kin/​kinship 54, 76, 79, 85, 88, 89, 90, 92, 93, 94, 107, 108, 125, 134–​5; see also family King Æthelred 28 King Harold 36 King Olaf of Norway 28 King River 118 King Svegthir 25 King’s Men 107 King’s Park (Perth) 218 Kingship 61 Kirkwall 20, 22 Kirkwood, James 87 Knap of Howar 19, 20 Knollys, Katherine 70, 75–​6 Lady Glenorchy 87–​8 land 1, 8, 11, 19, 20, 37, 51, 53, 54, 55–​6, 57–​8, 59, 61, 62, 86–​7, 93, 94, 99, 100, 101, 104–​5, 106, 108, 109, 117, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 125, 128, 129, 131, 134, 136, 184, 185, 194, 207, 209, 211, 214, 216, 218, 219, 222, 228, 230; Aboriginal connections to 119–​20, 126–​8; and identity 89, 109; and property 89–​91, 100, 104–​5, 106; dispossession of 8, 13, 215; homeplaces 89; terminology 13, 89; see also landscape; place landscape 2, 8, 11, 13, 19–​20, 21, 29, 35, 51, 55, 63, 67, 109, 120, 121, 127, 129, 194, 215; Australian 118; modifications 121; sacral 24; political 36, 46; colonial 193; emotional 13, 40; heritage 5, 13, 53, 59 Lanfranc, Archbishop of Canterbury 37, 43 Launceston 119, 120, 121–​2, 130, 152, 155, 205, 207 Launceston City Council 148, 152, 154 Lefebvre, Henri 214 Leigh 57 Life of St Katherine 5 Life of Wulfstan see Vita Wulfstani Lime mortar 1–​2; see also Middens

lineage 10, 75, 76, 77, 84–​5, 86, 87, 89, 91, 92, 93, 101, 102, 142; and culture heritage 93–​4, 100; of affection 85, 91 Liverpool 190 Loch of Harray 19 Loch of Stenness 19 Lombroso, Cesare 199 London 9, 37, 57, 72, 99, 103, 104, 107, 203 Lord Russell, John 77–​80 loss, 34, 35, 45, 56, 75, 77, 79, 80, 81, 99, 103, 109, 142, 154, 220, 228, 229; senses of 38, 45, 79, 99, 120, 214, 215; see also heritage Louvre 27 love 10, 76–​7, 79, 80, 91, 92, 105, 108, 139, 142, 149, 159, 161, 173, 178, 188, 215; see also affection; families Lowenthal, David 4, 134 Lucas, Edward 152 Lutton, Linley 221, 222, 229 Lynch, Andrew 142 macabre 152, 192 Maconochie, Captain Alexander 10, 169–​80, 181n15; ‘Memorandum on the formation of a Library at Norfolk Island’ 173; ‘Memorandum on the Expediency of Cultivating a Taste for Music in Prisoners’ 173–​4 Macquarie Harbour 152, 168 Maddox, Alan 10, 11, 168–​82 Maeshowe ‘dragon’ 26–​30, 32n51 Maeshowe 26, 31n15, 31n16, 32n37 Magic Broomstick Segway Tours 193 Malcolm III of Scotland 57 management 6, 132n4, 170, 171, 172, 179, 180n13, 222, 223 Mansell, Clyde 120–​1 Māori 184, 185–​6, 188, 192, 194 Marchant, Alicia 1–​14, 29, 51–​66 Margaret, Countess of Lennox 70 marriage 76–​7, 90, 101, 104, 105, 108, 187, 191, 206, 207 Martello Towers 20 Mary Arden’s Farm 108 massacre 11 material culture 7, 10, 21, 35, 43, 62, 91, 121, 125, 149, 176; destruction of 34–​46; reuse of in buildings 35–​46; see also heritage Maxwell-​Stewart, Hamish 11, 12, 127, 198–​211

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Index 263 McClain, Alekandra 42 McCurdy, Harold Grier 103 McGregor, Russell 134 McTavish, Donna 192 Mead, Margaret 222 Medici, Great Duke Cosimo III de 90 medicine 86, 202 medievalism 10, 135, 140–​1, 142, 143, 144, 147n20; as transhistorical phenomenon 141–​2; Victorian 143; see also haematic medievalism melancholy 68 Melbourne 136, 138, 218 Melbourne Federation Conference 134 Melbourne Intercolonial Exhibition 144; Mediaeval Court 144–​5 Mellitus 26 Memento Mori/​Memento for Mortality 73–​4; see also contemplation memorials 11, 68, 210; see also Monuments memory 11, 13, 24, 30, 35, 38, 53, 56, 61, 69, 72, 79, 101, 107, 122, 125, 130, 171, 173, 175, 186, 192, 194, 215, 220; -​making 6, 107, 109; affective memory 16n36; and place 215; sites of 80 memory practices 4, 5, 6, 10, 38; and nostalgia 10, 176, 178; internal memory practices 4 mental illness 39, 48n31; mental afflictions 80 Mercury 154, 157 Methodist Church 151 Michael King Writers’ Centre 190, 193, 196n34 middens 1–​2, 14n5; uses in lime mortar 1–​2, 14n5 migration 19, 21, 191, 198 milk 87–​8, 106; breastmilk 86, 87, 88 Milligan, Joseph 123 Minerva Club 150 mining 159, 218, 229; destruction of heritage by 119, 122–​3 Mining Journal 199 Moir Family 1–​2 Moir, Joseph 1–​2, 15n31 Moir, Joseph Paxton 2 MONA (Museum of Old and New Art) 157, 166n33 Montgomerie, Sir Robert 87 Monumental History 157, 162, 164 monuments 3, 9, 11, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 26, 29, 35; at Westminster 67–​8,

72–​3, 74, 75–​6, 77–​81, 81n7; Keeper of the Monuments at Westminster 72; monumentality 35, 41; Neolithic era 21, 22–​3, 26, 29; Shakespeare family funeral 102, 106, 109 mood 100, 122, 141, 142–​6, 228 moral shock 215, 220–​1, 230 motivation 6, 102, 148, 161, 172, 177, 186, 189 Mount Lyell 159 mourning 8, 9 Murdoch, Steve 91 museums see collecting institutions music 10, 168–​80; national 174 myth/​mythology 12, 29, 53, 68, 91, 94, 144, 152, 163, 189, 191, 195 naming practices 89–​91, 92, 93, 103, 105, 107–​8, 204; ‘name-​daughter’ 90; ‘name-​father’ 90; ‘name-​mother’ 90; ‘name-​son’ 90; and identity 75; and land 89–​90; As act of colonisation 127–​8; family 84–​94; name-​sharing 93, 94; on runic inscriptions 24, 29, 32n46; street 228–​9 Nancarrow, Jane-​Héloïse 8, 11, 13, 14n1, 34–​50 Napoleonic Wars 203 Nash’s House 108 nation 11, 36, 54, 61, 67, 84, 85, 89, 94, 137, 184, 198–​201; and family histories 84, 85, 93–​4; and heritage 5, 10, 63, 84, 93–​4, 183; and monuments 80; national identity 10, 67, 84; national narratives 10, 12, 56, 61, 80, 91, 97n45; nationalism 11, 134 National Archives (London) 57 Ness of Brodgar 19 New Place 99, 104, 107, 108, 109 New South Wales 125, 168, 178, 191 New Zealand 12, 181–​95, 205, 206 New Zealander 185–​6, 188 Nixon, Cheryl 85 Norfolk Island 10, 168–​80 Norman architecture 34–​5, 41; as tool of conquest 34, 44, 45–​6; blending with Anglo-​Saxon 35–​6; ornamentation 42–​3; resistance to 42 Norman Conquest 4, 8, 34, 35, 36, 37, 40, 41, 43, 45, 46; psychological impact of 34–​5

264

264 Index Normans 34–​5, 37, 39, 41–​4, 45–​6; architectural heritage 41–​2; heritage 35–​8, 42, 44–​6; textual heritage 38–​9 Norse 139; on Orkney 19–​30; burial practices 25; interpretation of heritage 24–​30; Old Norse language 25 North America 168 North Ronaldsay 20 Norway 21, 22, 27, 28, 29 nostalgia 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 38, 41, 93, 143–​4, 175–​6, 178, 215, 222; and music 175–​6; as concept 10, 175; as heritage practice 9; as mnemonic process 10 nutrition 202 objects 7, 27, 36, 44, 62, 94, 100, 107, 109, 118, 119, 134, 140, 141–​2, 143, 144, 150, 152, 154, 162, 164, 174; and agency 12–​3; museum display 153 ochre 125, 127, 128, 129–​131; as blood of the earth 125, 129–​30; ochred hand stencils 128–​9; see also First Tasmanian People; Wargata Mina/​ Judds Cavern Olaf Tryggvason 22 Old English literary traditions 38–​41; formative traditions 39–​40 Oliver, William 187–​8 oral history 157 Orderic Vitalis 44 Orkney Islands Council 20 Orkney, Island of 13, 19–​33; history of habitation 21–​22; as heritage landscape 19–​21; use of stone 19–​20; Christianity 21–​30; conversion of 21–​22; marketing and tourism strategies for 20–​21 Orkneyinga Saga 22, 25, 32n37 Oxford 2, 57 Pacific 1, 3, 11, 169, 193 Pākehā 184 ‘Pākehā Māori’ 184 Palgrave, Sir Francis 57 Parkes, Henry 134–​5 Parry, Thomas 70 Partennamana 122–​3; Dackeeler/​ Daughter Mountain/​Mt Pearse 122–​3; Mother Mountain/​Mt Bischoff 122–​3

patriotism 174 patronage 39, 41, 42, 71, 75, 77, 80, 90–​1, 92 Paul of Caen 43 Peacham, Henry 72 Pearce, Alexander 152 Pearsall, Derek 69 Pecksall, Richard 70 penal reforms 169, 170, 179; and music 169–​80; Marks System 170, 171, 172, 176, 177, 178, 179 penal station 200, 201, 209, 210, 211; see also Port Arthur; Cascades Female House of Correction penal/​convict system 152, 155, 158, 169, 200, 210, 211; as unfree labour system 200; build heritage of 200–​1; Model Prison 163; Separate System 172 Percy family 53, 55, 63n6 performance 7, 10, 77, 134, 170, 179, 216; affective 100, 138; and heritage 6, 7, 36, 44; of grief 77–​80 Performance Turn 6 performativity 6 persecution 8 Perth 122 (Tasmania) Perth 53, 57 (Scotland) Perth 8, 214–​30 (Western Australia) Perth Intercolonial Exhibition (1881) 216 Perth Waterfront Project 219, 228 Perth’s Esplanade 214–​30; threats to 217–​9, 228–​30 Peterborough 36 Petrow, Stefan 157 Phillippy, Patricia 79 photography 149, 156, 162; early Tasmanian 149, 158–​61, 166n41, 166n42; see also Beattie, John Watt Picts 19, 21–​22, 29, 30n9; Pictish Symbol Stones 19 piety 34, 37, 40, 67, 75, 76, 79, 80 pilgrims/​pilgrimage 26, 32n47, 68, 72, 80 Pitt Rivers Museum (Oxford) 2 place 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, 11, 13, 24, 25, 29, 51, 55, 57, 58, 59, 61, 62, 67, 68, 89, 91, 94, 99, 109, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 127, 129, 132, 144, 154, 157, 159, 170, 175, 176, 179, 187, 194, 195, 201, 203, 207, 210, 211, 216, 220, 230; and belonging 91; and emotion 215; and experience 55, 56, 61; and

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Index 265 spirituality 122–​3; as concept 84–​5, 192, 214–​5; loss of 228 Plantinga, Carl 142–3 Platt, Len 137 Pluto 59, 61 Poet’s Corner 67; see also Westminster Abbey Pogue, Kate 107 Point Puer 207 Port Arthur (Tasmania) 152, 154, 155, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 163, 164n7, 168, 169, 201, 207 Port Arthur Museum (Hobart) 150, 154, 157, 163; display of convict punishment tools 152; Visitors 152–​3 Postmedieval 141, 142, 143 Potteiger, Matthew 192 power 1, 3, 7, 8, 26, 28, 35, 36, 40, 41, 44, 46, 53, 67, 71, 74, 89, 91, 134, 135, 140, 172, 178, 186, 205, 211, 215, 220; affective 2, 5, 62, 146, 148; displays of 1–​2; healing 72; of death 80; of emotion 230; of nature 159, 166n40; of sites 29; power relationships 10; powerlessness 8 Praed, Rosa 136–​7; Outlaw and Lawmaker 136; Lady Bridget in the Never-​Never Land 136–​7 preservation 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 13–​4, 19, 21, 22, 23, 34, 35, 37, 40–​1, 44, 61, 89, 94, 101, 104, 108, 119, 131, 132, 163, 173, 219 property 2, 12, 55, 62, 85, 86–​7, 88, 89–​90, 92–​3, 94, 105, 109, 149, 187, 203, 218; Developers 224; language of 92; moveable 87; personal 175 protein 207, 210 protest movement 8, 215–​16, 220–​30; communications of 222–​4, 225; and emotions 215–​6, 222 Protestant 71, 80, 89, 107, 172, 174, 177 punishment 152, 154, 158, 168, 169–​70, 171–​2, 179, 187, 190, 200, 209, 210, 211; psychological 171, 172; tools 152 Purinton, Jamie 192 Puritan 87 Quarterly Pursuit 203 Queen Elizabeth II 217, 228 Queen Mary 69 Queen Victoria 170, 178

Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery (Tasmania) 148, 152, 154 Queenstown 118 Quiney, Thomas 104–​5, 108 Ragnar Lothbrok 24, 31–​2n25 Randles, Sarah 11, 13, 19–​33 Reardon, Margaret 185, 187, 188, 189, 190–​1, 194, 195n13, 196n34 recalling 7, 9–​10, 126, 187, 193; as act of heritage 7–​8; see also emotional practice; memory reconciliation 79 Reddy, William M. 7, 176 Reformation 68, 69, 72, 80 Renan, Earnest 200 repatriation of Aboriginal Human remains 118 Resurrection 27, 77, 79, 80, 103 Richard I 44 Ring of Brodgar 19, 20, 23, 26, 29, 31n16 Rischbieth, Bessie 229 ritual 8, 10, 26, 44, 77, 100, 107, 109, 129, 130, 134; and emotion 107; and performance 7–​8; practices of death 107 Roberts, David 198 Robinson, George Augustus 126–​7, 129 Rochester 43 Roman Law 4 Romanesque artistic style 27, 36, 41; architecture 41, 43; Anglo-​Norman 41, 45 Rosenwein, Barbara 7, 11, 29, 39, 44 round houses see Stone Round Houses Royal Australian Historical Society 199 Royal New Zealand Navy 189, 190 Royal Society 150, 154, 157, 163 runes/​runestones see runic Inscriptions runic inscriptions 22–​26, 29, 31n11, 31n16, 32n46; as heritage practice 22–​30 Rushen, Liz 191 Russell, Elizabeth 71, 77 sad/​sadness 10, 44, 45, 75, 80, 81, 99, 103, 122, 139, 163, 214, 230 St Andrews 53 St Dunstan 37 St Edmund’s Chapel 77 St George 142 St Magnus Cathedral 20

266

266 Index St Magnus Erlendsson 22 St Magnus Kirk 20 St Oswald, cult of 37 St Samson 26 St Thomas Beckett 136 Saints cults 37, 40–​41 Sarah Island 154, 158, 159 Saxon 34, 35, 36, 37, 38; textual heritage 38–​9, 40, 41, 42, 43–​44, 45–​6, 46n4, 48n31, 136, 139; see also Anglo-​Saxon and Anglo-​ Saxon/​pre-​conquest architecture Scandinavia 19, 23, 24, 25, 27, 28, 29, 31n16; see also Norse Scandinavian Runic-​Text Database 31n16 Scheer, Monique 7, 39, 140, 174, 222, 225; see also emotional practice Scone 58; Stone of 58–​9, 65n40 Scotland 12, 13, 19–​33, 51–​66, 71, 84–​98, 149; maps of 13, 51–​3, 57–​61, 62–​3 Scots 53–​4, 58–​61, 63n7, 85, 93, 94, 97n45; family 85; law 87, 91 Seeley, John 139 self-​awareness  176 self-​discipline  172 Seymour earl of Hertford, Edward 71 Seymour, Lady Jane 70, 81n7 Shakespeare Birthplace Trust 100, 108; see also Anne Hathaway’s Cottage; Hall’s Croft; Mary Arden’s Farm; Nash’s House; New Place; Shakespeare’s Birthplace, Shakespeare Family 101, 102, 104; arms of the 99, 100, 101, 102, 104, 106; funeral monuments of 102, 106, 109 Shakespeare, Hamnet 99, 103, 109 Shakespeare, John 99, 100, 101, 102 Shakespeare, William 12, 62, 63, 99–​110; All’s Well that Ends Well 101–​2, 108; Anthony and Cleopatra 109; Hamlet 103; King John 103; Pericles 101; The Winter’s Tale 103; Twelfth Night 103 Shakespeare’s Birthplace 108 Shakespeare/​Hall, Susannah 102, 104, 105, 106, 107 Shakespeare/​Hart, Joan 104, 105 Shakespeare/​Quiney, Judith 104–​5, 108 Sherlock, Peter 9, 11, 13, 67–​83 shot production 1–​2, 14n3, 14n30, 14n31

Shot Tower (Taroona); 1–​2, 8, 9, 13, 14n3, 14n30, 14n31; emblematic uses 1–​2, 8–​9 Sidney Sussex College 76 Sigurd, Earl of Orkney 22 Simpson, Megan 187, 191 Skara Brae 19, 20 Smith, Adam 177 Smith, B. Coultman 155 Smith, Babette, 201 Smith, Greg M. 142–3 Smith, Keverne 103 Smith, Laurajane 4, 30, 84, 145, 175, 179 Smith, Mick 13 Snow Family 186, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193 Snow, Robert 12, 183, 184–​5, 186, 187, 190, 191 Social practices 4, 6, 100, 106 Soja, Edward 214 solace 215 solastalgia 8, 214–​15, 230 solidarity 160, 215, 230 South Africa 201 South African War 201, 202 Southern, R.W. 37 space 13, 21, 29, 53, 69, 70, 85, 89, 99, 100, 143, 144, 160, 177, 218, 229, 230; sffective and embodied 45; cultural 13; emotional 108, 185; geographical 11, 13; living/​material 100; public/​private 157; sacred space 24, 26, 29; time-​space 143; see also land; place Standing Stone of Stenness 19, 20 standing stones 19, 20, 21, 23; see also Standing Stones of Stenness and Ring of Brodgar Star (Ballarat) 198 State Heritage Register 219–​20, 230 Stearns, Carol Zisowitz 7 Stearns, Peter N. 7, 216 Stirling 51, 53 Stirling, Lieutenant Governor James 216 stone 1–​2, 3, 8, 11, 19–​30, 34, 42, 43, 51, 58, 59, 70, 73, 74, 75, 99, 100, 104, 108, 117, 120, 125, 131, 132, 144, 210, 211, 216; terminology 12–​13; tools 2, 21, 119, 121, 124, 125; see also monuments and ruinic inscriptions stone burial cairns 21

 267

Index 267 stone carvings 23, 24, 26–​7, 29; see also Maeshowe Dragon stone circles 19, 23; see also Standing Stones of Stenness and Ring of Brodgar stone ledger 81n4 stone round houses 19, 20, 21 Stone, Philip 192 Stratford-​upon-​Avon 99, 100, 101, 102, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109 Stuart Family 58, 71, 84 Stuart, Mary 67, 71 sublime 135; Style 159, 166n40; Kantian 144 Sullivan, Erin 80 Supreme Court of New Zealand 186–​7, 188, 191 Swan River 214, 216, 222 Sydney Herald 179 Tamar River 121–​2; as living entity 122; Mangana Lienta 122; Mooronnoe 122; Pleepertommerla 122 Tarkine Conservation Area 119 Taroona 1–​2, 13–​14 Tasma 138–​9; Uncle Piper of Piper’s Hill 138–​9, 142–3 Tasman, Abel 184 Tasmania 1, 8, 12, 13, 117–​32, 148–​64, 168, 191, 204–​11 Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre 119, 120 Tasmanian Aboriginal Heritage Legislation 119, 121 Tasmanian Aboriginal People see First Tasmanian People Tasmanian Police Gazette 204–​5, 207, 208 Tasmanian Relics Act 119 Tasmanian Tourist Association 151 Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area (TWWHA) 127; as Aboriginal cultural landscape 127–​9 Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area Draft Management Plan 127 Taylor, Charles 140, 141–​2, 143 TeAra-​the Encyclopaedia of New Zealand 190 tears 34, 38–​9, 40–​41, 44–​6, 77, 80; performative elements of 44; purposes of 38; see also crying; grief

temporality 3, 6, 8–​9, 53, 55, 141, 189, 215; and emotions 8, 9–​10, 39–​40, 140; and heritage 8–​9, 21, 38, 62; see also Deep Time Thanatourism see Dark Tourism The Bulletin 136 The Clipper, 161–​2 The Colonist 170–​1 The Guardian 156 The Hue and Cry 203 The Lone Hand 139 The Post 229 The West Australian 218, 225, 229 Theosophical Society 151 Thylacine (Tasmanian Tiger) 1, 14n4 Thynne, William 76 Times 198 Timothy, Dallen J 134, 136 Tomb of the Unknown Warrior 68 tombs 43; at Westminster abbey 67, 68, 69, 70–​81; decoration of 70–​1, 76–​81; display of status on 76; on Orkney 19, 23, 25, 29 tourism 4, 6, 12, 148, 150, 151, 156, 161, 183, 191–​4, 200–​1; and emotions 73, 80–​1; convict 155, 156–​7; genealogical 89; heritage 100, 108–​9, 140; marketing strategies 20–​21; Westminster Abbey and 71–​3; see also Dark Tourism Tower of London 43, 72 Towrie, Sigurd 25 transhistorical mood 10, 143–​4, 146 transnational genealogies 3, 11, 14 transportation 148, 155–​6, 160, 168,  170, 188, 191, 194, 198–​201, 204–​5, 208, 209–​10; anti-​ transportation movement 150, 155–​6, 157, 207, 208, 210; Assignment Period 160 trauma 53, 63n7, 192, 210 Treaty of Waitangi 184, 185 Trinity 75 Trouwunna/​Tasmania  124 Tuan, Yi-​Fu  214 Twelfth-​century Renaissance  39 UNESCO 19, 200 UNESCO World Heritage Register 200 UNESCO World Heritage Site 19 United Kingdom 3, 11 United States of America 191

268

268 Index value 34, 37, 51, 55, 57, 58, 85, 94, 120, 127, 132, 134, 139, 141, 144, 150, 163, 173, 174, 179, 183, 215, 222, 230; and Aboriginal heritage 127–​32; as framework for heritage 2, 4, 5, 8, 12, 13–​14, 19, 62, 117, 118, 123, 149, 175; protection of 118–​9 Van Diemen’s Land 152, 155, 156, 165n28, 168, 169, 191, 204, 205; see also Tasmania Van Gent, Jacqueline 185 Victoria (Australia) 117, 205 Victorian Police Gazette 204 Victorians 68, 143 Vikings 23, 25, 139; see also Normans visitor experience/​visiting 1, 6, 8, 9, 19, 20, 67–​9, 71–​7, 79, 80, 99–​100, 108–​10, 119, 122, 125, 128, 129, 144, 149, 157, 160, 161, 163, 169, 173, 192, 193, 203, 210, 211; Visitor books of the Port Arthur Museum 163; see also tourism Vita Wulfstani 34, 38–​9, 42, 44 WA Planning Commission 219 Wales 54, 62, 71, 206 Walsham, Alexandra 26 Wargata Mina/​Judds Cavern 128–​9 Wars of the Roses 59 Wayne, Michael 193 Weever, John 71–​2 Wellington (NZ) 186 West, Reverend John 119–​20, 155, 208 Western Australian Parliament 219

Western Australian State Register of Heritage Places 214 Westminster Abbey 9, 43, 58, 67–​81; as historic site 68–​71, 80–​1; as National Mausoleum 67–​8, 80; as site of memory 80; as theatrical artifice 67; Chantry of Henry V 69; Chapel of Henry VII 69, 71; Dean and Chapter of 68, 70, 71, 72; description of monuments 67–​71; famous burials at 68–​9; Shrine of Edward the Confessor 67, 68, 69; tourism to 71–​5 Westray 19, 22 wetnursing 87–​8, 93; see also breastfeeding Whadjuck Noongar 216, 229 Wheeler, Richard O. 103–​4 Whig 199 White Knight of Derry 136 Wilde, Oscar 68 William of Malmesbury 34–​5, 38–​41, 44–​6 William the Conqueror 36–​7 wonder 67, 68, 72, 73, 75, 80; see also awe Wood, George Arnold 199, 201, 208 Worcester 36, 37, 38, 41, 88 Worcester Cathedral 34, 35, 42–​6, 46n4, 107 World War I 168, 217, 228 Wulfstan of Worcester 34–​46, 48n31 Yuin, An Elder of 125 Zarnecki, George 27